


Murderer's Row: Vol.3 - Pound of Flesh

by ViolentMedic



Series: Murderer's Row - Prison!AU [6]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emetophobia, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Harassment, Torture, forced drugging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 181,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentMedic/pseuds/ViolentMedic
Summary: It's been fifteen years since Donut first arrived at Valhalla Penitentiary. Ten years have passed since the riot that took away one member of the Row. But the rest of the Row remains. They're old, scarred and more than a little grumpy, but they remain and until now that's been good enough.But a new load of inmates has arrived, and with it comes problems. Allies and enemies from the past, young inmates that are reminiscent of the people that the Row used to be, and a pair of career criminals whose real allegiances are up in the air. And with all these problems come the problem of grudges, old and new. Of revenge. Of grievances that have had too long to stew, and an old war that had until recently belonged to the distant past. Everyone wants the pound of flesh that they feel they're owed, and very few of them care about the blood that'll spill with it.The final volume of Murderer's Row.





	1. Chapter One: A Decade Later

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm nearly where I wanted to be before I started posting again (I'm just missing the first flashbacks) but I got impatient. It's likely I'll experience slowdowns eventually, but for now I'm going to be posting once a week and do have about 70k of buffer so far. ...Did I mention this was shaping up to be a long volume? Because it is.
> 
> So, first off, if you haven't read the first two volumes and other flashback oneshots... what the fuck are you doing here? This will make no sense. That's fifteen years you've jumped ahead by. Go back right now. If you're gonna ignore me anyway, spoilers for all prior Murderer's Row parts.
> 
> Second, tags will be added in the future (both in the pairing section and the warnings, and possibly in the character section.) Warnings because I don't know what's going to turn up, pairings because at least one pairing is a spoiler that I don't know if I want to spoil yet. I'll warn if any substantial changes occur.
> 
> Third, if you have spoilers for this fic either through ffnet (which has some of Vol.3 but not all that much in the grand scheme of things) or through me shoving google docs in your face, keep those spoilers to yourselves until they show up in the fic proper.

In Valhalla Penitentiary, things changed slowly when they changed at all. It all added up to some bigger differences, but no-one really noticed until they looked back. If the people there thought about how things had been ten years ago, under the rule of Sarge, they'd then realise that a lot had changed since.

There was, of course, Warden Niner. A woman who was much less prone to bursts of violent insanity and ridiculous, painful ideas. That in itself was a change. Much of the change was spearheaded by her after she examined the prison and found it lacking in every way possible. She was much more competent than Sarge ever was, and less inclined towards making inmates fight each other.

The budget was shuffled around. Niner hired an accountant to untangle the ball of yarn that Sarge had left the accounts in. Staff were reviewed for signs of incompetency, and cleared for the most part. There was some doubt over Doc's qualifications for being a therapist. However, he turned out to be… decent at it. Perhaps it was an undeserved reputation based on the fact that he could get someone like Wash to talk—no-one really knew what they talked about, just that they talked—but it was a reputation nonetheless.

Security was tightened, rules mended. Some activities were cancelled—the 'red vs. blue' sporting activities ended up being put indefinitely on hold, since they encouraged the inmates to punch each other in the face—and others later appeared. An education program was implemented after a couple of years, in an attempt to decrease the amount of repeat offenders.

Over the years, the prison population grew. With the amount of death—both from fights and Doc’s incompetency—on a decrease, the prison started to lose its reputation for being a shitheap for both inmates and staff. Eventually, they had more inmates than cells. This resulted in the eventual institution of cellmates for most of the population, barring those who were particularly troublesome.

With the sporting events gone, Red and Blue meant little nowadays. The lines painted outside the cells remained, and people would occasionally use the terms when telling new inmates where they were located. But as teams, there was functionally no difference between them.

On the Row, things remained much as they always had.

The introduction of cellmates was a bit of a bump. Particularly since they couldn't initially choose who they shared with. This resulted in the ten worst months of the decade, during which one could not enter the Row without hearing Church and Donut arguing about personal space and, eventually, a full-blown war that consisted of kicking shoes at each other.

That war ended on mutual surrender, and with the game of ‘Kung Shu’ being forever banned under penalty of a month in SHU, still considered the worst of the two shoes.

The other cells weren't much better, with Grif and Tucker constantly arguing and occasionally resorting to light slaps, and Lopez and Caboose wordlessly glaring at each other whenever they had to share space. But eventually, after some bribes and pleading, they managed to switch to their preferred roommates—or at least one they didn't despise—and life went on.

Small, slow changes happened. People got older and greyer, and there were changes in how everyone behaved.

There was Church and Tucker. What started as big fusses over the smallest touches eventually mellowed. What started as them awkwardly dancing around the words ‘boyfriend’ or ‘relationship’ turned into casual acknowledgement of the fact. Although Tucker still regularly claimed ‘no homo.’ Old habits die hard. Church also built his business, replacing the hole of goods that Wyoming had left behind, and kept his promise of not dealing any goods to those who acted too violent.

Grif… got better. Never entirely. Not like he’d been before Simmons’ death. While he had always been a heavy drinker, he was now rarely seen without a stained coffee mug that tasted of fermented orange juice. Sometimes nicks and scabs appeared on his arms. And in winter or near the anniversary of the riot he would be at his worst. But he started smiling again. Sometimes he would go months without scratching at his wrists.

Caboose was his usual cheery self, but he was more grounded now that someone had taken the effort to try and help him set his views straight instead of warping them for their own purposes. While he still got mad on occasion, no-one died from it. At worst, Caboose would lightly slap the offenders. It still felt like the sky was falling on their heads, but they would recover and not push him further.

On Donut's part, he worked at being stronger. It became a common sight to see him trying to lift bags full of water, while Caboose tried to shout encouragement at him in the style of a drill instructor but instead just ended up awkwardly bellowing compliments instead. Donut grew stronger, he built muscle. All the while making sure Grif didn’t get too drunk and Caboose didn’t get too angry. He returned otherwise to being all sugar and cheer outwardly, but more often that anger and hardness was evident just under the surface.

Nothing much changed with the staff.

Most of the old guards remained, although they were getting on in years. New guards joined up over the years. Younger ones, so that the entire workforce didn't comprise of people nearing the retirement age. But otherwise, not much changed on that end. Sheila remained the doctor, Doc remained in a therapist role. But new positions were added as well. As well as an accountant to fix the budget, social workers were recruited to help with other issues.

Flowers seemed a little less chirpy, perhaps because Niner didn't like playing cards with him as much as Sarge had. Wash, however, actually smiled on occasion, and not solely around York. People didn't look too closely at Doc, they never had, but if they did, they might notice his smile was bigger, too. That although sometimes his eyes seemed shadowed and haunted, there were times when he seemed happy. This had started around the time York stepped in and pushed Wash into bringing Doc with them when they went drinking.

O’Malley remained quiet, for the most part. Started to age terribly, his hair losing its last hints of red. And while he still wore that cheshire grin, it sometimes seemed to be more of a grimace. He and Doc almost seemed to possess some sort of equilibrium. When Doc’s smile was at his brightest, O'Malley was at his dimmest. When Doc looked distracted and haunted, that’s when O’Malley would grin widest.

Things stayed peaceful, for the most part. No-one wanted another riot. Overall, life went on. Sometimes it was slow and tedious, but it went on. Life in Valhalla wasn’t great, but it wasn’t all that bad. Almost bearable. Dull, but in the best way.

That was about to change.

 

* * *

 

“Ow.”

“Oh, stop it. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Says you--ow.” Donut tried his best not to flinch while Felix rolled his eyes. In one hand, he held a small bottle of ink that he’d apparently made himself. Donut hadn’t asked how. In the other hand, a paper clip.

Fifteen years ago, Donut wouldn’t have let professional tattoo equipment near his skin, let alone these cheap prison substitutes. Even if Felix insisted that he’d done the snapdragon tattoos on his arms himself. But the idea didn’t bother Donut much nowadays. And, hey, he had to complete that prison aesthetic somehow.

“Ow.”

“You keep whining and I'll slap the sore part,” Felix muttered. His forehead scrunched up as he focused. “You’re going to look ridiculous.”

“No confidence?”

“Fuck off, my skills are amazing. But you're getting a tattoo of a unicorn. A fucking unicorn.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s a horse with a sword on its head--”

“You can call a pile of shit a birthday cake, it's still a pile of shit. And that's still a unicorn. At least let me tattoo something on you that, y'know… isn't a unicorn. Like an actual prison tattoo. A cobweb or something if you don't wanna affiliate.”

“Cobwebs?” Donut glanced down at his left arm as he spoke, but looked away again quickly. Watching the paper clip go into the skin made him feel queasy.

“Yeah, it means, uh… long sentence or something. Like, prison's a web and you're caught in it, or some shit like that.”

“That's deep. In an emo poetry kind of way.” Donut looked at Felix for a moment, then said, “I can see you having some kind of emo phase in high schoo—“

Felix prodded one of the sore parts of the tattoo with his finger.

“Ow! Why?!”

“Because shut up. Besides, I never did high school. School is for chumps.” Felix went quiet again, focusing on the tattoo, before eventually lowering the paper clip. “Right, right… okay, I’m done. Don’t mess it up, if the guards ask it wasn’t me, and you wash my clothes for a month. Or you could get that big guy you hang with to hit Locus for me.”

“No violent favours.” Donut, who’d been as relaxed as he could be given the pain of getting a tattoo and Felix giving the design a poke, immediately sat up and frowned at Felix. “Especially if they involve Caboose.”

“Right, okay.”

“Besides.” Donut shuddered. “Locus is terrifying.”

“Yeah? Try sharing a cell with him, you’ll see how fucking terrifying he really is. Eesh. Can you believe that Flowers thinks us sharing a cell will allow us to ‘overcome our differences?’”

“That sounds like Flowers.” Donut twisted a little to try and see Felix’s work better. “What’s the stuff around the horse?”

“Unicorn. And those are lasers.”

“Lasers? But they’re all hexagons and stuff.”

“Yeah, it’s a laser shield. Unicorns have laser powers, everyone knows that.”

“...Awesome. How was this not your full-time job?” Donut asked, admiring the artwork. Admittedly, he didn’t really know what Felix’s job had actually been. Felix was always vague about it. All Donut knew was that he’d gotten shot in the leg at some point.

“Eh, tattoo artist doesn’t pay that well.”

Felix left the cell, and Donut left soon after to head for the bathroom. Eager to get a better look at the ‘unicorn’ that now decorated his arm.

He trotted into the bathroom, empty since it was an hour where the showers weren’t running, and examined the unicorn. Satisfied that Felix hadn’t messed it up, he made to step away. He paused, squinting at the polished sheet of metal that served as a mirror. After a few moments, he leaned closer and stretched the skin around his eyes, trying to smooth out the crows-feet that had developed over the last decade.

He was getting old. Though not aging as badly as the others. Church’s hair was entirely grey now, and he had deep lines in his face. Tucker and Lopez weren’t doing much better, and Grif was aging particularly badly due to the amount of alcohol and cigarettes he drowned himself in. The row was rapidly turning into a bunch of cranky old men.

“Ooh. Sword-horse!”

Caboose appeared behind Donut, peering at the tattoo with interest. Caboose was the exception to the aging rule. Caboose didn’t look a day older than when they’d first met.

“Caboose, who did you sell your soul to in exchange for eternal youth?” Donut sighed, still rubbing the corners of his eyes.

“What? I did not sell my soul.” An alarmed expression appeared on Caboose’s face. “Did someone steal my soul, Chouquette? Was it Tucker?”

“It’s an expression, Caboose.”

“Oh.” Caboose paused, then said, “If I was going to sell my soul, I would sell it to a dragon so they would let me breathe fire.”

“Nice.”

 

* * *

 

Grif was somewhat drunk and on his fifth cigarette of the day. That meant it was a good day so far, even though he was fast running out of alcohol and would need to go around bartering for fruit again soon.

But there was something he had missed almost as much as proper booze. Something which he now had access to. Television.

Prior to Niner finally setting up a television in one of the spare rooms, few inmates could remember if there had ever been one. Church insisted that there had once been, but that it’d been broken during a fight and no-one had ever replaced it. It wasn’t as if a television was very expensive, but Sarge had insisted that it fell under ‘coddling.’

Niner, on the other hand, considered it a babysitting tool. Which might have been insulting if it weren’t for the fact that a love of television far overwhelmed any offence. And today the movie Blade was on. While it wasn’t as good as the comic it was still worth a watch.

Grif sat backwards on one of the slightly battered chairs, leaning on the backrest. One hand gripped a stained coffee mug, half-filled with very watered-down alcohol (he could claim it was orange juice unless a guard looked really close, and as long as he was quiet about it they turned a blind eye) while the other hand gripped the remote.

He was ready to fight to the death if anyone tried to change the channel. When Church appeared and tried to yank it out of his hand, Grif kept his grip tight.

“Fuck off!” Grif growled.

“You fuck off. Just because you love this movie enough to get it tattooed on the back of your neck--”

“That’s from the comic book!”

“Yeah, that’s great, I’m sure your boyfriend loves--” Church stopped himself there, looking a little awkward for a moment. Grif took the opportunity to yank the remote away from him. “Oh, son of a bitch!”

“Try to grab it again and I stick it down my pants.”

“Ugh. Okay, nevermind.”

Grif grinned and stuck his tongue out at Church. “Victory. And for the record, Simmons fucking hated that tattoo.” He glanced up at the ceiling and lifted the coffee mug in toast. “Thanks for making it awkward enough for me to achieve victory, kissass!”

Church flopped into a chair, looking miffed. “Asshole.”

“All’s fair in love and war, dude. If Tucker kicked it and I brought it up, wouldn’t mean I’d stop fighting for the remote. That’s a rookie mistake.”

“Okay, you can stop now,” Church said tersely.

Grif’s grin faded a little as he went back to watching the television. “Fine, fine. Why, you worried about Tucker? Because he does sound like a herd of baby elephants being fed into a lawnmower with all that wheezing.”

“He’s fine. It’s just a flu. But, y’know…” Church gestured at his chest. “All the scarring and shit. I’m not fucking worried, I’m not gonna cry like a little girl over it. It just makes it hard to sleep.”

“No-one accused you of being a little girl, Church. I’ve met little girls way tougher than you.”

“Shove it up your ass, Grif.”

“Whatever. Now shut up, I wanna watch as much of this as possible before Caboose turns up and realises there’s a Disney movie on the other channel. He doesn’t care where the remote’s been and he’s strong as dicks.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m dying,” Tucker whined, face buried in his deflated pillow, the moment that Church wandered back into their cell.

“You’re not dying,” Church said, for the hundredth time that day.

“I’m telling you, man. Miller’s trying to get me from beyond the grave.” Tucker let out a few wheezing coughs, though this time it was clear that he was forcing them out to emphasize his point. The fact that he felt well enough to exaggerate made Church relax a bit.

“Yeah, well, he’s doing a terrible job if you can still talk about it.”

Church leaned against the bunk, crossing his arms and resting them on the top mattress. Tucker had taken the top bunk (after a long argument) and was just a huddle of sheets from Church’s view.

“Still not moving, huh?” Church asked.

“Fuck no, not unless it involves food or sex.”

“Well, the latter ain’t happening right now. I don’t want what you have. Besides, you can barely breathe. I don’t want you suffocating halfway through.”

“Yeah, that kind of asphyxiation is pretty far from erotic,” Tucker admitted before rolling over. “Still, we got three months to have as much sex as possible before my parole hearing comes up. You gonna let a cold get in the way of that?”

“Despite the persuasive argument, sounding like elephants in a blender is not what I want,” Church grunted, trying to ignore the little twinge in his stomach. “You want me to just bring you back something from dinner?”

“Mmmh… yeah, better than getting up.”

Church made to move from his leaning position on the bed, but Tucker made a protesting noise. “Ugh, what?”

Tucker grinned before, with a sudden burst of movement, sliding over and wrapping his arms around Church’s shoulders. It might have been sweet were he not cold-ridden and yelling, “Germs!”

“Goddammit, Tucker!”

“So if you catch my cold, we can totally have sex. Right?”

“You are an asshole. An asshole!” Church tried to squirm out of Tucker’s grip. God, his grip was far too tight for someone this sick. “I swear to god, Tucker, I will cut you off.”

Tucker let out a half-mock gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

“Hey, who’s the sex-addicted idiot here?”

“Dammit, it’s me. Well, shit.” Tucker buried his face in Church’s shoulder, still grinning. “Still, misery loves company.”

Church wriggled out of Tucker’s grip. “Yeah, well, suck it up.”

Tucker let out an annoyed huff, before reaching his hand out. Patting Church’s shoulder just to make sure of his location, he then quickly skimmed his fingers along the side of Church’s face. He did that often since they’d become more comfortable with this relationship. Once Church had asked why, and Tucker said it was so he could remember how ugly Church was.

“Can you get some nice alcohol from Tex or Doc?”

“You’re not getting drunk while you can barely breathe.”

“I know. It’s preparation for the future, dipshit.”

 

* * *

 

Lopez prodded at his food, having smuggled his tray out of the cafeteria so he could eat in the infirmary. Sheila, meanwhile, was holding a sandwich while reading over some medical reports. The infirmary was empty, leaving them with a few blessed moments of privacy. They’d learned, over the last decade, to treasure these times. Even if most of the time it was just talking. (Occasionally, Sheila would lock the door and they’d get a quickie in, but it was difficult to get in the mood with the knowledge that any moment an injured inmate could start hammering on the door.)

Usually, they talked about small things. Television, cars and machinery, whatever came into their heads. Today, however, there was actually some news.

“ _Your cousin?_ ”

“ _Mm._ ” Lopez poked at his food moodily with his spoon. “ _Got arrested for car-jacking. Idiot._ ”

“ _Well, that’s not too bad. Could be a longer sentence._ ”

“ _Who steals a car when the driver’s still within twenty metres? Amateur,_ ” Lopez grumbled. “ _I’m going to have to look after him. He’ll get eaten alive if I don’t, and I won’t hear the end of it from the family._ ”

“ _Did I ever meet this cousin?_ ”

“ _No. He wasn’t at our wedding. Honestly, I don’t talk to him much._ ”

“ _You don’t get along?_ ”

“ _He’s too…_ ” Lopez waved his spoon around vaguely. “ _Eager-to-please? Helpful?_ ”

“ _Can’t have that, can we?_ ”

 _“Also he looks too much like me. It’s a little off-putting. It’s like a mirror universe where I don’t know how moronic everyone is._ ” Lopez pointed his spoon at Sheila, one corner of his mouth raised. “ _I’m mildly worried that you’ll see him, remember how old I am and possibly trade me in for a younger model._ ”

“ _You look distinguished, dear,_ ” Sheila said absently.

“ _That’s a lie and you know it.”_

 

* * *

 

“What do you see when you look at this?” Doc asked, holding up a picture of a black blob with smaller red blobs.

“We’ve done Rorschach tests,” O’Malley grumbled.

“But that was four years ago! Maybe you’ve changed your mind.”

“That is the exact same picture.”

“Have you changed your mind about what it looks like?”

O’Malley squinted at the blob, scowling. “No. It still looks like two bears giving each other a high five.”

“I was just curious,” Doc said, putting the card down. “It was the only card you didn’t say looked like something horribly violent. I wanted to see if that had changed.

“Oh?” O’Malley grinned widely. “I meant two decapitated bears. I wouldn’t want you to think I was getting ‘better.’” He reached up to push some hair out of his face. Age had caught up and turned his hair steel grey over the last ten years. It was no surprise, since O’Malley wasn’t far from seventy.

O’Malley’s age had the bonus of leaving O’Malley without the energy to force Doc into sex as often as before. He still did, sometimes. But it was rarer, and usually the incidents were shorter since O’Malley was losing stamina. Still, despite this he remained spry for his age. Not to mention as cruel and sadistic as he’d always been.

Doc saw O’Malley fidgeting in that way that indicated that he could spring at any time. The time when Doc had to distract him, or at least open negotiations.

“O’Malley, you seem fidgety today. Did Sheila change your medication?” Doc asked, trying to make it sound like an innocent question. O’Malley glanced down at his hands before looking back at Doc.

“No.”

“You didn’t miss any doses?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nothing. Nothing, you just seem distracted. You’re not paying attention to the tests.”

“Well, once you finally learn something from these tests, then I might consider them something else other than a waste of time.”

“Speaking of which, I actually had a new test for you today,” Doc said, flicking through a book of various psych tests he had. He’d been running any random test he could find on O’Malley just to see if he could figure out what went on in his head. Mostly under the rationalization that it couldn’t hurt. So far, he’d figured out a few little details, but that was less the tests and more fifteen years of close-up experience.

O’Malley was definitely shifting. He would pounce any moment now. Doc resisted the urge to move his chair back. That would just provoke him.

“But we’re almost out of time, so I’ll hold on until next time,” Doc said cheerfully, checking his wristwatch. “Besides, you’re not interested and Wash’ll be around in a few minutes. We’ve got plans.”

He shouldn’t have said that. Because O’Malley’s stare had gotten immediately more venomous. He didn’t lunge, but he climbed off the couch with a slow, purposeful movement that made Doc’s stomach churn.

“You don’t want to do that. All that alcohol would be bad for you, and you’re normally so focused on a healthy diet.” The words were kind, the tone cold. O’Malley stepped forward, and Doc gave into temptation and slid off his chair, moving back and matching O’Malley’s speed.

“I’m designated driver,” Doc said. “If I don’t go, he and York’ll be hungover tomorrow and that’s just not good for anyone. I think we’re done for the day, don’t you?”

Doc’s back hit the door. He grasped the handle and opened the door an inch, but O’Malley lunged forward and pushed it closed again.

“I don’t like how much time you’re spending with those two. You know I don’t like to share.”

“Of course I know that,” Doc said, not averting his gaze from O’Malley. “Just like I know you show signs of antisocial personality disorder and malignant narcissism. Like how I know that you treat people like toys and act like a spoiled child whenever someone else plays with them--eep!” Doc yelped as O’Malley grabbed him by the throat, pressing him harder against the door.

“Did you get that insolence from them?”

“No,” Doc choked out. “I was about to say I know you’re intelligent and in control enough to realise that Wash will be able to hear me while I’m pressed up against this door. But I’m sure you realised that.”

“...Is that a threat?”

“A threat? No. I don’t threaten people, O’Malley. That’s violent.” Doc reached up and grasped O’Malley’s wrist gently. Not quite forcing it away, but holding it still so it would be harder for O’Malley to choke him further. “But if you wanted to fill out the test… well, I could work overtime a little. Extend this session enough to speculate on the results.”

O’Malley squinted at him. Doc stared back, trying not to appear too afraid. He knew he couldn’t dissuade O’Malley. But that also meant he had nothing to lose, and O’Malley did. O’Malley risked a month in SHU if he kept pushing things. A month of boredom. The worst punishment available.

“You think I don’t realise you’re trying to play me, Doc?” O’Malley leaned in closer. “You think I can’t read you? I know you a thousand times better than you know me, because I’m not a failed doctor who diagnoses his patients using Google.”

O’Malley’s grip tightened slightly. Doc said nothing. Then a loud knocking came from the door Doc was pressed against.

“Doc? You done?” That was Wash’s voice.

Doc turned his head a little as he heard him, but O’Malley’s grip tightened further and Doc froze again. O’Malley’s eyes flickered between Doc and the door handle. The fingers pressed on his throat tighter, just shy of leaving bruises, before letting go. O’Malley walked back to the couch, picking up Doc’s latest test on the way.

Doc slipped out of the room and shut the door behind him before turning to Wash.

“Hey. You heading off?”

Wash didn’t respond, glaring at the door. “Did I see O’Malley in there? He acting up? You still got pepper spray on you?”

“Wash, violence doesn’t solve everything,” Doc said reproachfully. Wash made a face that said he disrespectfully disagreed. “Don’t worry. He’s not giving me any trouble.” Lies. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Semi-truth.

“If you say so. Tell me if he starts acting up, though.”

“Sure, I’ll tell you.”

Doc wouldn’t. He didn’t want to be difficult. But in truth, Wash’s presence helped all on its own, simply because Wash actually checked on him. So did York, although less frequently. The constant checks made O’Malley more cautious, which made Doc feel almost safe.

Almost.

“Anyway, you’ll be done soon? York’s buying.”

Co-workers actually inviting Doc anywhere was also new. That had started with York, who said that Doc didn’t look like he got out much. Doc still didn’t know why York had bothered, since they’d barely ever spoken before that.

Still, it was nice. It was like having friends.

“I have to work overtime,” Doc said.

“I still don’t understand how you even have overtime. I don’t. And I invented your job!”

Doc shrugged, scratching the back of his head. “It’s the usual bar, right? I can catch up once I’m done. You still need a driver, right?”

“Doc, you don’t have to stay sober. Taxis exist.”

“It’s fine.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll see you when?”

“Uhhhm… six? Seven? Between those two times.”

“Alright.”

Once Wash was gone, Doc leaned back against the door. He shut his eyes and tried to gather what calm he could before going in to face O’Malley again.

 

* * *

 

Flowers was not being particularly vigilant that day. He’d been waiting for a bus of new inmates (as well as a couple of new guards who were accompanying the transfer) for the last two hours, and they had yet to show up. He hoped there hadn’t been a breakout. That would just be a downer.

He yawned widely, propping his feet up as he sat in the booth that controlled the gate. It wasn’t as if anyone would know if he wasn’t a team player just this once. He’d rather be inside on guard duty, or playing cards at the very least. Something with human interaction.

He heard his phone go off, playing a Barenaked Ladies song. Specifically, it was playing ‘Boomerang.’ Flowers removed his feet from the booth immediately as he retrieved his phone.

He only had that song set for one contact. He wondered if the Director had sensed him slacking off.

There was a message left on his phone. Flowers peered at the screen, now leaning forward a little.

 

**He’s on the bus.**

 

Flowers typed a message back.

 

**Understood. :)**

 

Despite the misleading emoticon, he was not smiling. Instead, he put away his phone before focusing on the road, waiting for that bus. As he did, he felt a pang of annoyance that Sarge wasn’t in charge of the prison anymore. It had always been so much easier to do his work without Niner’s actual competence. Good wardens made tidying up problems much harder.

Flowers waited. Finally, half an hour after the Director’s message, a bus pulled into the lot. It came to a halt near Flowers, who stood up with his usual smile transfixed on his face.

“I thought you might have gotten lost,” he said cheerfully, though with a touch of reproach, to the first guard who jumped off the bus. A young woman with a mass of springy curls. When she spoke, it was with a heavy lisp that seemed to be caused by her braces.

“Sorry, sir! Picking up some of the transfers took longer than expected. You’re Captain Flowers, right? I’ve heard a lot. I’m Jensen, looking forward to--”

“I love this friendliness you’re bringing to the table, Jensen, but we have some inmates to sort out. To be continued, though.”

“Right! Sorry, I’m just a little nervous. First big job!” Jensen beamed at him, then returned to helping shepherd the inmates off the bus. Most of them didn’t stand out much. A lot of young inmates who looked like they’d done no worse than get caught with a bit of pot. Flowers gave most of these inmates only a passing glance at the guards got them to line up.

Flowers’ attention was drawn to one of the last inmates getting off the bus. A man in his mid-fifties, an age which some would say was a little old to be sporting a mohawk. Before that man could get off the bus, Flowers sidled up so that he was standing next to the bus door.

“Mind your step,” he told the man.

The mohawked man looked at Flowers, and there was a flash of recognition before he fixed his face back into seeming indifference. Flowers smiled a little wider and gave the man a light prod forward as the line moved towards the prison.

 

* * *

 

“It’s syrup, Vanessa! Syrup masquerading as a proper beverage! It’s--”

“How dare you! You and your hot leaf water! What, are you just frustrated that it’s not as bitter as you are?”

“If you mean I’m not getting diabetes just looking at it--”

Niner planted her face in her hands as arguing continued to swamp her ears. She’d just wanted a coffee. One goddamn coffee before she had to go deal with the new load of inmates. But she’d had the bad luck to enter the breakroom while both Kimball and Doyle were in there.

On one hand, they were both good at their jobs. Doyle had been hired not long after Niner, in order to sort out the mess that had been the accounts. He’d done a brilliant job at that, finding and fixing almost every money sink amongst the sporadic and jumbled paperwork that Sarge had left behind. Kimball, meanwhile, was a later hire. A social worker, hired to organize the right help so that less inmates would come back, so they’d be calm and wouldn’t murder each other. It was through her that most of the education was organized, and she had a pretty good rapport with most of the inmates.

However, the accountant and the social worker in the same room inevitably ended up with headbutting. Often it was about their actual jobs. Whether Doyle was being too stingy on money, or whether Kimball was coddling the inmates. Whether to use what limited money they had on one thing or another. Those arguments often got brought directly to Niner, and she’d be forced to give a ruling one way or the other.

And sometimes…

“SWEET TEA IS THE DEVIL, VANESSA. THE--”

“YOU’RE THE DEVIL! AND YOUR TEA GOES IN THE HARBOR!”

Niner raised her head, looking at the two arguing about their respective teas. “Would you stop? You’re about to burst my eardrums.”

She immediately regretted speaking, because both Kimball and Doyle turned towards her with frenzied madness in their eyes.

“Settle it, then!” Kimball bellowed, waving her glass of sweet tea with the energy of a berserker warrior. “Hot tea or sweet tea, Niner?”

Niner wordlessly lifted her coffee-filled mug. Kimball and Doyle exchanged glances before looking back at Niner.

“Well, that’s wrong,” Kimball huffed.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Miss Niner,” Doyle sighed.

Niner rolled her eyes before leaving the breakroom, hearing the argument resume behind her. As she walked she drained her coffee mug, reaching out and leaving the empty mug in the hand of a guard passing the other way.

She hated talking to big gatherings of inmates. Niner was fine with administration, even if it paled compared to flying or a job with actual excitement. The problem was that when it came down to putting her authority on the inmates… well, fact was she only had a couple of minutes to make an impression, and she was a small woman whose primary weapon was her snark. That was a tool with limited use.

She arrived in the room where the new inmates were assembled, and watched quietly as Flowers lined them up, occasionally offering a word if someone stepped out of line. Nothing cruel, simply ‘move over here’ or ‘please don’t do that.’ Most of the other guards just stayed silent, although the springy-haired girl was trying to the help to the point that she was getting slightly underfoot. But the enthusiasm was good.

Flowers finished lining them up and, glancing over to Niner, gave a little bow and gestured at them as if to say ‘all yours.’ Niner inwardly sighed and walked over to stand in front of them, trying to pull herself up to her full five-foot-one.

“Gentlemen.” That first word had a touch of sarcasm to it. “Welcome to Valhalla Penitentiary. Despite the name, this is not a haven for people who like to pick unnecessary fights.”

Niner paced along the line, making sure to meet the gaze of every inmate regardless of how much she had to tilt her head up to do so. Most met her gaze square on. Some seemed bored, some nervous.

“Valhalla’s not bad, as long as you behave. I run a tight ship, and I don’t like trouble. But keep your head down and stay out of trouble, and you’ll do just fine here. If you have an issue with how things are run, then you can approach me or Flowers. We’ll address any concerns as far as we reasonably can.

“However!” She raised her voice, because the mohawked inmate had let out a derisive snort. “You throw any bullshit my way, or the way of any of the guards… and don’t think we’ll hesitate to punish you.” She smacked Flowers lightly on the shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Flowers?”

Flowers nodded once, smiling. The reactions were, for the most part, subdued. The man who’d snorted looked Flowers up and down before smiling as well, though not in a pleasant way.

“Wouldn’t smile like that if I were you, Mohawk,” Niner said quietly. The man frowned at her, automatically touching his hair. “Yeah, it looks ridiculous. Just saying. Anyway…

“Play by the rules… don’t get into fights, don’t get caught with contraband, do as you’re told… and we’ll get along just fine. York and North will show you to your cells. Tomorrow you’ll be shown to both the infirmary and to our therapist to see to your medical and psychological needs. You’ll also be assigned jobs. Any questions?”

One inmate raised his hand before asking, “Is the time schedule for the typical day recorded anywhere that I may view it?”

“You’ll figure out the times.”

“I would like to memorize them immediately,” the inmate said, gazing at Niner with vivid green eyes.

Niner stopped in front of him. “You don’t even have a watch.”

“My internal clock is excellent.”

Niner studied him for a couple more moments before saying, “Breakfast at eight. Back to your cells by six. Lights out at nine. Everything else, you’ll figure out as you go along.”

“Jeez, mostly the only questions I get are ‘when’s the food.’ Just ask York if you have any more questions, he likes talking to people.” Niner gestured at York, who was standing off in one corner. York waved.

“...Affirmative.”

 

* * *

 

 

Donut yawned as he pulled on his clothes. He hadn’t slept well. Partially because the unicorn tattoo was still sore, and partly because Caboose had been snoring all night. Caboose was fixing the blankets that they had draped over the bunk bed. When they’d first become cellmates, they’d had a very intense argument over who got the top bunk. The compromise had been reached by bartering with Church for some blankets, draping them over the top and turning the entire bunk into a fort, then sharing the bottom bunk. It was a very cuddly compromise. Tucker had deemed it ‘literally the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,’ the fact that he and Church were banging apparently being a moot point.

In the next cell, Donut could hear Grif and Lopez yelling at each other. Grif seemed to be shouting about how the smell of old oranges wasn’t that bad, while Lopez seemed to be concerned about playing tennis with his cousin. Further on, he could also hear Church sneezing and cursing Tucker and his germs, while Tucker laughed at him.

Normal day, if a bit noisy.

The argument between Grif and Lopez was ended by Wash banging his nightstick against the bars. “Quiet, you two. Neither of you can understand the other anyway.”

“ _I understand him fine. It’s not my fault he’s a fucking moron._ ”

“English, Lopez! English!”

“Yeah, you guys make a lot of noise considering that it’s fucking gibberish,” Tucker said.

“No-one asked you to interrupt,” Wash said. “...And for the love of god, stop sleeping naked!”

“You can’t stop me! I live here!”

Other inmates were wandering past, heading for the cafeteria. Quite a few were faces that Donut didn’t recognise, so they must have gotten new inmates overnight. New faces were always blatantly obvious when surrounded by the same people day after day.

One inmate, however, was lagging behind. He was instead peering into each cell as he passed them. A smaller man with vivid green eyes. When he wasn’t peering into other cells, his gaze was focused on Wash’s back.

“Hey. You looking for someone?” Donut asked, stifling another yawn as he did so.

The man didn’t say anything until Wash had turned the corner to make sure the other cell rows weren’t having problems. The man waited for a few seconds, staring at where he’d been, before finally speaking.

“I am looking for Leonard. I was informed that this is where the murderers are kept.”

“Who’s Leonard?”

“Leonard L. Church.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh, Church. Do you need him to get you things? Because, let me tell you… guy overcharges like whoa.” Donut leaned on the bars of his cell, waving his hand around to emphasize his point. “Don’t get me wrong, he gets stuff quick. Definitely the biggest range. But pricy.”

The man gazed at Donut, seemingly unperturbed by Caboose flailing around behind Donut because he’d gotten his head stuck in his undershirt again. Donut reached back and tugged the undershirt down the right way, getting a muffled thank you from Caboose in response.

“If you would point me in his direction, I would appreciate it,” the man said. “...I do not know your name.”

“Donut. Nice to meet you, uh… guy!” Donut stretched out a hand to shake, but the man didn’t reciprocate. Instead, he was staring at Donut with a sudden wary coldness. “...What?”

“Franklin Delano Donut?”

“Yeah?”

“Your reputation precedes you. If you would point me in Leonard’s direction?”

“Oh, he’s a few cells down this way. Follow the sneezes and shouting.” The man walked off without a word. “Hey, I didn’t get your name! Come on!” Donut hurried after him. “Also, do you need softer laundry? That’s kind of my thing.”

 

* * *

 

“You jackass, come here! I’m gonna strangle you!”

“Didn’t know you were into that--oh god, Church, I was kidding, gah! No, no noogies! What are you, five?”

“Your face is five!” Church yelled, as he held Tucker in a headlock, albeit not a very tight one, and rubbed his knuckles on his scalp, while Tucker squirmed and whined about how Church was overreacting.

“Hey, Church! This guy’s here to see you. He asked by name,” he heard Donut say. “Also my reputation precedes me, how cool is that?”

Church didn’t look up immediately. “Dye-Job, the only reputation that precedes you is that you’re a girly piece of--”

The moment he looked up, he stopped talking. The silence was so thick that even Grif and Lopez’s argument, which had resumed the moment Wash left, seemed muffled. Tucker squirmed out of Church’s grip and said something, probably something insulting, but Church didn’t quite hear it.

Delta stared back at him for a moment. He was fidgeting with his hands a little, but keeping his eyes on Church’s face. “It has been a while.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Church muttered. “What the fuck are you--Donut, piss off.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” Donut huffed. “‘Thank you, Donut, for guiding this man to my cell.’ Is it too much to ask?” His quiet rant faded as he walked back to his cell.

“What’s happening? Someone grow an extra head? Why’s it so quiet?” Tucker asked, feeling the air in front of him.

Delta looked at Tucker, studying him like someone would judge the patterns on a potentially venomous animal, before saying, “We were once co-workers. Nothing more than that.”

“...Ohhhh. So you’re Delta or Theta, I’d guess? You’re too chatty for the Meta.”

Delta immediately looked back to Church, with slightly furrowed eyebrows and a tight mouth. On anyone else, this would have probably been alarmed rage. “You told your cellmate? Did you tell everyone?”

“Chill, Dee. He’s the only one.”

“Chill? I am meant to chill because you informed a potentially untrustworthy stranger--”

“Yo, I’m right here?” Tucker said, wiggling the fingers on one hand. “Church, you never said your smart guy was an asshole.”

“Shut up, Dee, like you’ve got a good record for who you do and don’t trust,” Church snapped.

“I made choices based on the information available--”

“Uh, I’m just gonna… go get some breakfast,” Tucker said, backing out slowly. “Tell me when… this… is over.”

Church barely noticed Tucker slipping out. “Like fuck you did! You shot a dude!”

“Based on reasonable logic.”

“Oh, come on--”

 

* * *

 

Grif needed alcohol. Thus, he needed fruit. And if there was anyone who wouldn’t understand the value of fruit in this prison-based economy, it was new inmates.

Thus, today was a fucking opportunity.

Grif approached two new inmates who were sitting by themselves, heads together and talking quietly. Both young. Grif wouldn’t put them past their early twenties. Judging from how they had grouped up, they probably came in together or knew each other from some prior sentence. Grif walked over, dropped his tray down and sat across from them without asking.

“You gonna eat that fruit?”

The two inmates looked at him. One of them sat up a little straighter, looking nervous. The other didn’t seem to give a shit.

“Yeah. I’m hungry,” the give-no-shits inmate said.

“Sure, but fruit’s not great. How fresh do you think that orange is?” Grif said, pointing his spoon at the inmate’s plate.

“You can have mine, sir,” the nervous inmate said, picking up his orange and holding it out. Before Grif could take it, the other one grabbed his wrist and pulled it, and the orange, back.

“Dude, you don’t know what that means. What if it's a contract or something? What if you just agreed to be his prison bitch?”

“What,” Grif said flatly.

“He’s grifting you, probably,” the give-no-shits inmate said, letting go of the other’s wrist.

“Hey. That’s only like half my name. I’m Grif, by the way.”

The give-no-shits inmate eyed him dubiously for a moment before pushing himself back on his chair a little. “Bitters.”

“I’m Matthews. Uh, pleased to meet you, sir,” the other one said, stretching out a hand to try and shake Grif’s. Grif didn’t return the gesture, just looking at Matthews with confusion.

“Why do you keep calling me ‘sir?’”

“Uh…” Matthews trailed off before shrugging. “Seems right. You know, you’re old--uh, no, wait, distinguished! Yeah! You’re a distinguished silver fox, sir.”

“What.”

Bitters was covering his face, his shoulders shaking a little from suppressed laughter. “Alright, okay. Look, Grifter.” He lowered his hands, leaning on the table. “We’re not handing you fruit. I mean, we can smell you from here. You stink like a distillery. We know the fruit is valuable, we’re not idiots.”

“...Yeah. It’s kind of obvious,” Matthews admitted.

“That is lies and slander,” Grif said.

“You are literally drinking liquor right now,” Bitters said.

Grif looked at his hand, which was holding an old coffee mug that was half-full of orange liquid. “...It’s orange juice.”

“Bullshit.”

“Alright, fine, just keep your voices down. If you make a huff the guards will actually bother taking it from me.” Grif took a sip of his drink afterwards.

The two of them exchanged looks, and seemed to have a brief telepathic conversation that involved a lot of tiny shrugs and face twitches. Then they looked back at Grif.

“But we could trade,” Bitters said. “Maybe you could do something for us. It isn’t big. We just want our cells changed a bit.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. Who’re you lumped with?” Grif asked, propping his hand on his chin.

“I think my inmate murdered a guy? He wasn’t charged with it, but he talks about sniper rifles a lot,” Matthews said. “His name was, uh… I don’t remember, but for some reason he had a pair of sunglasses on. Red lenses.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Birdie. Could do worse, but...”

“My inmate’s just annoying. Palomo talks a lot, like… I can’t find that off-switch and I kind of want to run him over with a car? It’s no big deal, it’s not like we got lumped in with rapists or anything,” Bitters shrugged. “But if you could point us to who we’d need to bribe?”

“Who we’d need to talk to,” Matthews amended. “But yeah. Sticking with Bitters would be nice. It’s not like we can make another meth lab in our cell.”

“A month of fruit, and I can ask the right people,” Grif said. “I’ve kind of got an in with powerful people.” They didn’t have to know that said ‘in’ was ‘pestering Church until he got pissed off enough to agree to ask/bribe Tex.’

“A week,” Bitters said.

“Three weeks.”

“Two.”

“You can also have this orange,” Matthews said, reaching out again and putting his orange on Grif’s tray.

“Alright. Deal.”

Grif and Bitters both reached out and shared a quick, deal-sealing fistbump. Matthews raised his hand for one as well, but Grif had already pulled his hand back and Matthews lowered his own, slightly dejected.

 

* * *

 

The moment that Grif arrived back at the usual table, Lopez let out an annoyed sigh at the sight of that extra orange.

“Bite me,” Grif told him, sitting down. Church and Tucker were currently absent, leaving only Donut, Caboose, Grif and Lopez sitting there.

“ _You have made my living space smell like an alcoholic candle store. I hate you,_ ” Lopez grumbled.

“I wish we were allowed scented candles,” Donut sighed.

“ _Not my point at all, Donut._ ”

“Well, it should have been. Although, to be honest…” Donut waved his spoon at Grif. “You do smell. And you’re drinking alcohol right now.”

“Yeah, I know, why does everyone want to point that out?”

“I mean… you could go lighter on it. Maybe… not drink your body weight in liquor?”

“Nah,” Grif said, drinking from his mug again.

“Grif, if you keep getting drunk the guards might write you up. You won’t have a cheerleader’s chance in a gay bar at getting out of here if you keep getting in trouble,” Donut said. Grif leaned back on his chair and huffed with the air of someone who’d heard this many times before. “I mean, you could at least try to behave or look like a rehabilitated citizen or whatever. You know, try what Tucker did. Volunteer to help with that education thing that Niner set up.”

“Tucker did that for two days and then declared it worse than prison,” Grif pointed out.

“Well, yeah, okay. But he’s also learning Sangheili from Santa. Really, even just not shouting or arguing with Lopez for a bit would help. You gotta try and be good.”

“I’m not trying to get into fights!” Grif grumbled. “It’s not my fault that Lopez speaks an entirely different language.” Lopez, in response, flipped him off. “Sure, I understood that, but…”

“I could teach you Spanish,” Donut offered.

“ _God, no,_ ” Lopez muttered into his cereal.

“I think Santa knows Spanish as well, if you want to learn it from him. He’s got a lot of languages under his belt.”

“Fuck that. I’m never going to Spain so why the hell should I have to learn it?”

“It’ll help pass the time. At least, it’ll do that better than being half-drunk all the time.”

“Donut, seriously. Do you remember how boring school was? Learning stuff’ll make time go slower, not faster.”

Caboose, who had been silently sorting his cereal into two piles until this point, muttered, “I would like to learn. If someone had not made my brain all broken.”

“Oh, come on! That’s low! I mean, sure, deserved. But low!” Grif protested.

“Hey. Mind if I sit down?”

All four of them glanced at the new voice. There had been a man standing near the table for the last thirty seconds, watching the discussion without being noticed.

“Sure! Be my guest.” Donut kicked a chair out a bit so the stranger could sit down. “But Church might get pissy about it.”

“Church gets pissy about everything,” Grif complained.

“True.” Donut gestured at the man’s hair as he sat down. “I like your mohawk. Ever think about putting some dye in it?”

“...I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.” Mohawk stuck his spoon into his cereal, but focused more on the others than on his food. “My cellmate mentioned a Church. He’s the guy who can get things?”

“Yep! He’s our Morgan Freeman! Only whiter and, like… only a fraction as cool and soothing.” Donut considered it for a moment longer. “...Yeah, he doesn’t really have much Freeman going for him.”

“...Right. So what are his markets?”

“He’s got the fucking monopoly on cigarettes and decent alcohol,” Grif said. “And… well, basically everything else. But the alcohol and cigarettes is what really matters, y’know?”

“He can get candy cigarettes, too. Most things he can get, as long as it’s not crazy illegal.” Donut reached over and snatched Grif’s pruno mug, taking a sip of it while Grif protested. He wrinkled his nose after. “Ugh, this is so watered down.”

“Fuck you, I have to make it last. Give it back.”

“ _You’ll catch several diseases if you drink his muck_ ,” Lopez said reproachfully.

“Aw, you don’t need to worry, Lopez!” Donut said, flapping his hand.

“ _I’m not. What I worry about is the smell of vomit joining all the other terrible smells._ ”

“So,” Mohawk started again, slightly loud to get Donut’s attention back. “By anything ‘crazy illegal’ you mean… what? Weapons? Drugs? Kinder Surprise eggs?”

“Absolutely nothing illegal. If you can get it in a store out there, Church can get it in here. No Kinder Surprise eggs.”

“...So someone from the staff is smuggling it to him?” Mohawk grinned as Donut clapped a hand to his mouth. “That was a melodramatic reaction for a hardened criminal.”

“Crap, did I say too much? Church won’t trade me candy cigarettes if I say too much,” Donut said, bouncing nervously in his seat.

“Nah, it’s common sense. I figure he’s not getting it from a criminal if illegality is an issue. Any other limits or rules?”

“Cause trouble and he won’t sell you shit,” Grif said, while Donut berated himself under his breath and smacked himself repeatedly in the forehead.

“That apply to everyone? Or just causing trouble for his friends?”

“Well, we’re not really his friends,” Donut murmured. “More, um…”

“A gang?” Mohawk suggested.

“No, no, no, that’s not right, either.”

“Buddy club? Not-quite-buddy club?” Caboose suggested.

“ _Idiots who happen to live in proximity_ ,” Lopez said.

“I’d just call us ‘guys who can withstand his assholery.’ No-one else puts up with him except us,” Grif said. “Except for Tucker, but Tucker’s an even bigger asshole.” Mohawk raised an eyebrow at this. “Him and his ‘don’t be blindist’ shit, that’s not even a thing.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of Tucker’s asshole qualities,” Mohawk said dryly. “So… few allies, you’d say? He has no gang?”

“I mean… there’s not really gangs. Not, like… dudes who wear shit or tattoo themselves to show allegiance or whatever,” Donut said. “The closest I can think of are those crazy red zealots who worshipped a flag, but--” Donut glanced sideways at Grif, who at the mention of the zealots had gotten a very dark expression on his face. “We don’t talk about them. They’re long since transferred, anyway.”

Mohawk nodded, but he was peering over Grif’s shoulder at the cafeteria line. Tucker had walked in, occasionally reaching out to touch a wall or table on his way to get his food. Grif twisted around a bit to check what Mohawk was staring at before looking back at him.

“Why all the questions? You gonna start trouble?” Grif asked, perhaps a little more aggressively than what would have been necessary.

“What gave you that idea?”

“ _Everything you just said_ ,” Lopez said flatly.

“Look, I’ve been in prison before. I just want to make sure I know what I’m walking into. Doesn’t seem like you’d be much of a challenge anyway.” Mohawk smirked a little, leaning on his hand. “My last prison was full of violent racists and people who’d fight at a moment’s notice. From what I can gather, this prison’s biggest criminals--a.k.a you people--are what a children’s show thinks big criminals are. ‘We do bad things, but no killing or fighting or anything that the guards don’t approve of.’”

“Doesn’t have shit to do with the guards. We just don’t like it either,” Grif growled. “So start shit and I’ll fuck you up.”

“Think what you want, Mohawk,” Donut said, after a warning glance at Grif.

“That’s not my name, why do people keep calling me that?”

“I don’t want to fight. I’d be quite happy to be friends. But if you try to stir things up? If you cause problems that ruin what peace we’ve got?” Donut reached out for his juice box and stuck the straw into it with more force than what was necessary. “Then I will find you. I will find a broom. And I’ll turn you into a popsicle. Fair?”

Mohawk gazed right back for a few moments before saying, “Fair.” He climbed to his feet. “Nice talk, but I need to be going. Say hello to Tucker for me.”

“Fine. What’s your name?”

“You can call me C.T.”

“Okie doke.”

Once C.T had left, Caboose leaned closer to Donut and whispered, “Popsicling people is very rude, Bomboloni.”

“I know. I don’t have to do it. He just has to think I’ll do it,” Donut murmured back.

“Speak for yourself. He starts a riot and he’s fucking dead,” Grif snarled.

“Calm down, Grif, come on. We won’t have to do anything anyway,” Donut said soothingly. “People don’t last long if they cause shit like that. I mean, look at Andy.”

“Andy did not die. He moved to a farm,” Caboose said.

“I guess he might have been transferred, there technically wasn’t ever a body and no-one said he was murdered, but--”

“He went to a farm and gets to run around in a grassy yard,” Caboose insisted.

“ _Let him believe. It’s less complicated than explaining reality to him,_ ” Lopez said.

Before this debate could continue, Tucker arrived with a tray of food. “Sup, losers?” He quickly swung his hand through the air near his seat to make sure no-one was already there before sitting down.

“Oh, Tucker! A guy was here. New guy, mohawk. Said his name was C.T and to say hello to you,” Donut said.

Tucker paused, his spoon hovering above his cereal.

“...Shit,” he said after a moment, putting his spoon down. “Is he behind me?”

“No?”

“Well, if you ever see him behind me, you tell me. Or I’m probably gonna get shivved. Guy’s a dick.” Tucker picked his spoon up again and returned to his meal.

“...That’s it?” Donut asked. “‘Warn me if I’m gonna get stabbed,’ then back to food?”

“Nah, I can respect those priorities,” Grif said.

“Fuck right. What am I gonna do, anyway? Run? It’s fucking prison, dude,” Tucker said.

 

* * *

 

Lopez had finished his breakfast and was dropping off his tray when he heard a slight huffing behind him and footsteps.

“ _What took you so long?_ ” he grumbled, turning to see his cousin. It really was unsettling looking back at him. He looked younger than Lopez had when he came in here. Like looking into a mirror that also made bad decisions, albeit a lot earlier than Lopez had.

“ _I got lost. Tried to find the bathroom,_ ” Dos said sheepishly.

“ _Use your cell’s toilet._ ”

“ _Cellmate told me I didn’t have toilet privileges yet._ ”

 _“What an ass._ ”

“ _It’s just hazing, right?_ ”

“ _Doesn’t nullify any of the assholery._ ”

As they talked, Grif walked up to drop off his tray. He was still holding his usual alcohol-soaked mug in one hand. He glanced at Lopez and Dos, turned away, then did a double take.

“What the fuck?” Grif looked between the two of them, before staring into his mug of watered-down liquor. “The fuck is in this?” After a few moments of consideration, he shrugged and took another sip anyway before leaving.

Lopez watched Grif go, then turned back towards Dos. “ _Could be worse. You could have him as a cellmate. I would sell my entire body sans my head in exchange for not having to share a living space with him. He’s filthy, smells of liquor and rotting fruit, and the only reason his side of the cell hasn’t dissolved into a pile of garbage is because Donut keeps cleaning it. I’d even trade back to having that big, dumb Blue as a cellmate._ ”

“ _What’s a Blue?_ ”

“ _Irrelevant. Suppose even a nuisance of a cellmate is better than someone who’s actively dangerous, though._ ”

“ _...Is this prison really that bad?_ ”

Lopez sighed before gesturing at the cafeteria line. “ _I’ll tell you after you get your food. You’ll want to sit down for this story. It’s nearly half a million words long and I only like telling it in clumps of a few thousand._ ”

On the plus side, at least there was someone else to talk in Spanish to. Someone that Lopez hadn’t yet pissed off and subsequently isolated with his level of snark.

 

* * *

 

 

“--and I’m just saying you have no fucking right to lecture me on trust. You’re crazy paranoid!” Church yelled at Delta.

“I am as paranoid as the situation indicates is wise.”

“You shot Gary!”

“That is the third time in as many minutes that you have made that point. That was twenty-five years ago. Are you ever going to stop mentioning that incident?”

“Hell no! Okay, uh, but that reminds me of some shit.” After what had been a twenty-minute argument on the people that both Church and Delta had trusted or not trusted over the years, Church flopped back onto his bunk. Delta remained standing, peering at the arrangement of Junior’s pictures on one wall. “First off, the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was arrested. I thought the context made that obvious.”

“Yeah, but how? Why?”

“The charge was writing two viruses and selling them to a third party. Said third party was less than trustworthy, and handed the information over to the police.” Delta walked closer to the wall of pictures, examining the one of a purple dinosaur. “None of my other crimes were discovered, so the sentencing was minimal. I must serve eighteen months.”

“Hah. Lucky.” Church put his arms behind his head, staring at the top bunk. “So did your little brother rat you out?”

“I would appreciate it if you stopped implying that betrayal is Theon’s only motivation.”

“Theon? What is he, a Game of Thrones character? That real or fake? What name are you using, anyway?”

“Currently? My name is Denzel.”

“Your choice in names sucks.”

“That is a sizeable judgement to make for someone who went under the name ‘Ritchie Kerk’ for ten years.”

“Low blow.” Church sat up. “You realise this is the worst prison you could have landed in, right? O’Malley’s here. And Wash. And South. Not to mention Tex. Oh my god, why is everyone here?”

“It is a little much to be a coincidence,” Delta said, as he examined the crayon drawing of Junior, Tucker and Crunchbite.

“If you start spouting fate or some bullshit--”

“Of course not.” Delta turned away from the pictures. “But it would benefit the Director to be able to keep an eye on us. Having a prison where he can place his people, send his enemies and have them watched and quietly killed off if they become a problem.”

“Yeah, well, if that were true I would have been strangled in my sleep within the first year. Not that people didn’t try, but that was for ‘child killer’ reasons.” Church clambered off his bed. “Look, that’s not the point. O’Malley’s still probably pissed about the whole Gary thing. You need a fucking transfer.”

“Perhaps.” Delta tilted his head, studying Church. “I heard that you have substantial power within the prison.”

“I guess. Supply shit, protect people. Keep shit running smooth. Nothing big, but hey. No-one fucks with me, so it’s all good.”

“I presume Tex is your supplier?”

“One of them.”

“I see you’re still using your resources well.”

“Jesus, Del--Denzel, Tex isn’t a resource. Fuck, Denzel is a stupid name. I’m just gonna stick with Dee. ...Also! What the fuck?”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a bone to pick with you, asshole. You let Eddie run off and steal a bulldozer! What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you tell him? I’m supposed to be dead to him, he’s not supposed to be driving bulldozers.”

“With all due respect, your supposed death was not very foolproof. He googled your name.” The expression on Delta’s face abruptly got rather frightening. The closest Church had seen to it was the expression Delta had worn when looking at Wash in that basement. “He left on his own. I am not responsible for whatever he did beyond that, nor do I intend to interact with him in the foreseeable future.”

“Well, what about Met--Maine? I told him to look after Eddie, too. Where the fuck was he?”

“I don’t know what orders you gave Maine regarding that. I haven’t seen him since the night you were arrested, except in the obituaries.”

“In the… oh. He’s dead?” Church said, completely derailed from his original train of thought. The idea of the Meta being dead was impossible. He’d seemed like a brick wall of a man. Invincible. Sure, he would have been getting old by now, but even so… the idea of him being dead was a major blow to Church’s worldview, even if he’d never cared much about the guy.

Delta, upon seeing Church’s stunned expression, frowned at him. “You did not know?”

“No, I… I don’t really look at the papers, y’know? Prison’s all I got, so I never needed to know what was happening out there.”

“I had assumed you had to know, given your close proximity to his murderer.”

“...Wait, what?”


	2. Chapter Two: The Ghost Of Bullshit Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc interviews the new inmates. Church and Donut have a conversation about the past. And C.T meets up with an old co-worker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for the record, since the Insurrectionists never got canon names, I'm just gonna add a list of the nicknames I'm using (mostly borrowed from other sources) that I'm using for each character, and which one they correspond with. Not all of them turn up in this chapter, but just for the future. C.T/Pillman and Sharkface are obviously evident, but just for the following:
> 
> Demo = Robot Arm Insurrectionist  
> Manly = Sleeveless Insurrectionist  
> Girlie = Lady Insurrectionist  
> Birdie = Sniper Insurrectionist  
> Comedy and Tragedy = The Turret Twins

Doc was not a great therapist. He had no illusions about that. But he really enjoyed the work. No blood. No accidents. And sometimes he was able to help people. He also found it really interesting. Perhaps it was a little morbid, but bodies all started to look the same after a while. Minds, though? Minds were always different.

He also couldn’t think of anywhere that would have such an interesting mix of minds as prison. In a mental hospital, for example, he’d be almost guaranteed to find some strange minds. But prison was a mixed bag. Sometimes people were healthy and had just made bad choices. Sometimes they just needed to unload everything. Sometimes they had some serious issues. And Doc would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little fascinating.

Take Andersmith, for example. John Elizabeth Andersmith seemed to be a perfectly stable, friendly person who just happened to have made a living disposing of bodies.

“I mean, it isn't as if that was my goal in high school,” Andersmith said. “I didn't tell the job counselor ‘I want to dispose of bodies.’ I just kind of fell into it.”

“If you don't mind me asking, how does someone just ‘fall into’ covering up murder?” Doc asked curiously.

“Well, you know how it is.”

“I really don't.”

“Ah, you know, you do an internship at a morgue and you learn things. Then a friend needs help hiding a body and before you know it you're selling organs on the black market.”

“I… see?”

“Anyway, when someone commits a murder you might as well see that the organs go to a good place,” Andersmith said cheerfully. “Or occasionally as fertilizer if the organs aren’t good enough. Though that’s not really practical, it’s very hard to get the right amount for an even spread. Always too much corpse or not enough, you know?”

“Do you garden much?”

“I have a herb garden at home. Do you garden too?” Andersmith asked.

“I tried,” Doc admitted. “I’ve still got the mint, but it kind of… ate the other plants.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.”

 

* * *

Bitters gave a pretty upfront reason for his crimes.

“College cost a lot of money, Doc. You’ve got to have a degree, don’t you? You’d know.”

“I mean… yeah, it is pricy,” Doc said evasively. He leaned forward. “A meth lab, though?”

“Meth’s popular. Hell, not much better if you need to stay up for a while. I mean, I kinda quit doing it. Didn’t like the, uh…” Bitters raised his arms, which had several faded scars from meth sores on them. There were also a couple on his face, marring an otherwise youthful complexion. “The crawliness. Not fun.”

“How are you doing with that?”

“I mean, prison’s gotta be one hell of a cleanse, right? Not like I’m gonna get any in here. Anyway, a lot of college kids were all about it. And from there it just spread, and me and Matthews were paying our way through college.” Bitters grimaced. “Wish we’d lasted a little longer. Could have at least finished our degrees.”

“Chemistry?”

“Gee. What a guess,” Bitters said flatly. “You’re a mind-reader.”

Doc scribbled something on his notepad. “What job were you looking to get with that? Or was it…” Doc tilted his head and waved his hand vaguely. “For more of what you were already doing.”

“I don’t need a degree to sell drugs, Doc. Also what are you, my school counselor? Who gives a shit?”

“I give a sh--a darn. Just because you made one mistake--”

“Yeahhh, I’m sure anyone with a job to give me will say ‘oh, meth dealing was a minor mistake.’”

 

* * *

He insisted on being called C.T, despite the fact that it didn’t match his initials at all. Doc peered at the man who was sitting on Doc’s uncomfortable sofa looking completely and utterly bored, then looked down at his file.

“You have quite the record. You must get up very early in the mornings!” Doc said, flicking through the file. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not with you,” C.T said bluntly.

“Is it because you’re hiding anything? You can trust me. I took an oath.”

“I don’t trust anyone in a position of authority, seeing as this entire building exists to stop me from doing anything I’ve done in the past.”

“Oh, don’t be negative. There’s lots of things you can do! There’s so many hobbies that are allowed. Like yoga and tai chi… I have some books around about that, if you’re interested. There’s also books in the library. I hear Donut picked up one about soap carving, gave me a piece of soap shaped like a kitten that smelt of lavender last time he was up here. Probably contraband, but it was really sweet! Hang on, let me find it.”

“I’m not interested. And you know what I meant,” C.T said.

“True. This isn’t your first prison sentence, right? You’re a, um… habitual criminal, right? Going in and out of prison all the time?”

“Apparently not any more. Life sentences are what they imply, Doc.”

“That doesn’t make it hopeless, does it? Aren’t there ways those kind of sentences can be overturned? You shouldn’t give up hope.”

“Overturned? I don’t think that applies to shit like what I’ve done.”

“That doesn’t fit in with my ‘hope’ theme. Anyway, just because you can’t do… this stuff…” Doc flicked back through the file. “You’ve done everything, huh? Cons, drug trafficking, kidnapping… assault with a tomahawk? Did you literally attack someone with an axe?”

“Yeah, I’ve been around.”

“How was it?”

“Do you give a fuck?”

“Of course I give a fudge! I mean, all this criminal stuff is way beyond my experience. The only crime I set out to do was to eat a pot brownie once in college. I’m just kind of curious about the appeal of crime. It helps me do my job if I understand. I mean, I used to think no-one liked doing crimes and that it all stemmed from bad childhoods or trauma, but…” Doc’s jaw tightened for a moment before he looked down. “Well. That doesn’t explain some people.”

“Don’t have to tell me that.”

“Sooo? Why do you do crimes?”

C.T paused for a moment, then shrugged. “My reason is that I play to my strengths. I do what I’m good at, and what I’m good at is bullshit.”

“Can you phrase that without swearing?”

“Bullshit’s bullshit, Doc. No matter what you call it. Would calling it roses make it stink any less? Anyway, I’m good at bullshitting. I like punching people. Crime lets me mix the two better than if I became, say… a lawyer with a part-time bouncer job.”

C.T wasn’t O’Malley-level unstable, at least. Maybe Doc was a little wary of the guy. Who attacks someone with an axe? A gun, he at least understood. But a tomahawk was something else. Doc drummed his fingers against his leg, wondering what to ask that wasn’t just ‘why do you do crimes?’

“Is there anything that’ll help you adjust to prison?”

C.T considered this for a while before saying slowly, “I… like cooking.”

“Okay, I’d love to support your interests, but you can’t start a meth lab.”

“I meant with food! I mean, I’d be happier if I could cook. Maybe if you put in a good word for letting me work in the kitchen?”

“Uhhh… they don’t let murderers in the kitchen--”

“There’s no murder on my record.”

“--and I’m pretty sure assault with a deadly weapon would be under a similar category.”

“If I’m carving up food, I won’t be carving up people.”

“...I’ll look into it.”

 

* * *

Dos, much like his cousin, could only speak Spanish. Doc didn’t know Spanish. Thinking about it, he probably should take some night classes or something. His lack of language was hampering his ability to do his job, but at least he’d found alternative methods of communication.

“Okay. Three words. No? Three reasons?”

Turned out that Dos was much more receptive to the idea of charades than Lopez.

Doc leaned forward, hands pressed to his face, as he watched Dos try to signal his reasons for committing the crime of carjacking.

“Reason one. Okay. Um… wait, slow down.”

Dos didn’t quite grimace, but his mouth did get slightly tighter before he raised his hands and made a surprised expression.

“Uh… rollercoaster? No, that makes no sense. Um… you were surprised by someone, and used the nearest vehicle to flee an assumed threat! No?”

Dos shook his head, then made the same gesture again before giving a thumbs up.

“A good shock. A… thrill?”

Another thumbs up.

“Okay, so you were into the thrill of it. Good! I mean, not good, but we’re getting somewhere! Okay, reason two…”

This was going to be a long session.

 

* * *

Matthews was more forthcoming about career goals.

“I really wanted to be, you know, a researcher or something. Just… science. Or a chemical engineer, maybe. I like making things. It’s just… it’s so cool how things can become other things if you work them right, you know?” Matthews enthused. “It’s like how our brains and feelings are all chemicals. Like, that’s the most beautiful thing ever! That chemicals can literally make feelings! If they can do that, they can make anything!”

“And… you made meth with that,” Doc sighed.

“I mean… well, yeah,” Matthews said sheepishly. “I mean, I didn’t want to break the law or anything. But college is expensive.”

“That’s what Bitters said.” Doc scribbled something else down on his notepad. “You’re pretty close with Bitters?”

“Yeah, Bitters is… well, he’s Bitters!” Matthews looked down, smiled and shrugged a little as his face went slightly pink. “I mean, being here without him would be one terrifying experience. Not that it isn’t terrifying as it is, but--"  


As Matthews chattered, Doc tried to covertly scan Matthews. He couldn’t see any meth sores on his arms and face. He wasn’t covert enough, because Matthews slowed down for a moment, looking at Doc before looking at his own arms.

“Oh, I don’t take it myself. Don’t like uppers. Can’t even drink a medium-sized coffee without freaking out.”

“You won’t have any troubles fighting addiction, then?”

“I’m good. Can you keep an eye out for Bitters for me, though? He doesn’t like admitting when he needs help, and I’ll try and keep him clean but…”

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

 

* * *

A lot of the new inmates were young. But Palomo was one of the youngest that Doc had seen--barely eighteen--and that always hurt to see. Sure, there were times it couldn’t be avoided. Doc recalled that the Red Zealot had been that age, too. It wasn’t as if the youth was immune to doing crimes (and it made Doc feel so very old, realising he’d just thought of them as ‘the youth.’)

But Palomo? There were extra circumstances contributing to being ill-fitting.

Doc lowered his pen, staring at Palomo. “I don’t mean to doubt you…”

“Oh, it’s okay. Everyone doubts me! The judge, the lawyer that was assigned to my case, my parents… wait, that last one wasn’t relating to this, that’s just a general thing,” Palomo said, waving his hand absently.

“It just seems…” Doc hesitated before saying, “You must have led a very sheltered life.”

“Hey, you take that back! I’ve been out of tons of shelters! I know things! I was a cool, rowdy teen!”

“Oh, you didn’t tell the judge that, did you?”

“No, I told the judge the truth! I thought they were lawn clippings!”

“A shifty man offered you money to carry marijuana across town, and you… you thought they were lawn clippings,” Doc said faintly. “I am all about believing the best in people, but that didn’t seem suspicious to you?”

“Hey, Kevin was a pretty nice guy. I just thought he was passionate about garden maintenance.”

Doc nodded slowly, giving Palomo a perplexed look. After a moment he said, “Well… I guess you don’t need much therapy on how to break the criminal cycle.”

“Don’t buy lawn clippings. Done. Quickest rehabilitation ever. Do I get, like… a sticker or anything?”

“...I should get stickers.”

 

* * *

Denzel was proving difficult to analyze. He didn’t show emotions on his face. On the other hand, he was very forward.

“A summary,” Delta said, the moment he sat down. He sat straight and proceeded to talk as if he was reciting a speech. “I intend to live out this prison sentence as quietly and peacefully as possible, so you need not worry about unprovoked violence. If unprovoked violence is directed at me, I will discreetly alert a guard provided they can be trusted not to tell anyone I informed them. However, should other measures fail, I will put all my resources into nullifying any threats made on my life, up to and including murder if they are persistent.” He relaxed slightly afterwards, leaning back into the sofa. “Is that sufficient data?”

Doc paused to scribble down everything Denzel had recited at him.

“You’re very upfront,” he said once done. “I like it. It’s good to be open! The murder thing, though? Not so good.”

“Murder is a last resort. I do not wish to add to my sentence.”

“No-one ever does.”

“...I also want to work in the library.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you. Why the library? Hobbies? We can talk about that.”

“It is a room dedicated to the storage of information. Of course I would like that. It is also a better use of time than ironing jumpsuits or serving a stew that is ninety-eight percent mysterious ingredients, even to the people who make it. I enquired into the matter earlier.”

“When did you have time for that?” Doc asked curiously.

“Irrelevant.”

“...So there’s nothing else you want to talk about? Nothing at all?”

Denzel stared at Doc, raising an eyebrow. “Are you put off that I answered your questions too fast?”

“...A little,” Doc mumbled.

 

* * *

For the first time in his life, Church was a little scared of Donut.

Sure, being annoyed at the prospect of talking to Donut, or having to listen to Donut, was nothing new. But he’d never been actually frightened of Donut. He knew the guy had some amazing survivability. But Donut just wasn’t a scary guy.

Then Delta told him that Donut murdered the Meta.

Church stood in the doorway that led into the little television room. Donut and Caboose were in there, along with a few other scattered inmates. There was a Disney film on the television, and Caboose had a tight grip on the remote.

Church quietly sidled in, sitting down a couple of seats away from Donut.

“Uh, Do--”

“Quiet! Not right now!” Donut whispered, holding a hand up and talking around a candy cigarette. “It’s my favourite part. Where all the lanterns come out and they discover they love each other through the power of song.”

Normally Church would have proceeded to talk over him even louder than what was necessary, just to be a prick. Today, he immediately fell silent.

He half-believed Delta was mistaken. Of all people… Church could have believed it about anyone else before he believed it about Donut. He’d believe Tucker in his current blind, lung-damaged state more capable of killing the Meta than Donut. 

Especially back then, when Donut was still soft. Sure, Donut was sturdier now. Not to mention a little scrappy. But he’d always imagined Donut’s roommate to be a weaker Donut. Some ultra-gay rollerblader with pink locks of hair that made Donut look like a lumberjack.

Donut just didn’t seem like a killer. He never had. But how did anyone kill the Meta in self-defence?  


Church stared at Donut while leaning back slightly, as Donut gazed at the television screen and sung the words at a pitch that almost made the empty chair beside him bleed. Church rubbed his forehead as he watched. Trying to come up with scenarios where the Meta was even capable of dying was giving him a headache. Donut's singing just made it worse.

Finally, the song finished. Donut sniffled. "So beautiful."

"I thought you were trying to appear tough," Church grumbled.

"When you're tough enough, no-one can yell at you for liking things," Donut insisted.

"You are talking over the film, Dango," Caboose muttered.

"Oh, sorry, um... you needed to talk, Church? Should I get up? Is it going to take long? Is it about candy cigarettes? Are you lowering the price?" Donut asked hopefully.

"Well, uh... it's hard to talk about it with... that—" Church waved his hand at the television. "—going on in the background. Come on."

"Fine," Donut sighed, after taking a wistful glance at the film. He clapped Caboose on the shoulder. "Tell me what I missed when I get back."

"Okay."

The moment they were out of the room, Donut said, "You going to tell me what's so important? If it's not about candy cigarettes I'm going to be really annoyed!"

"I wanted to talk to you about your old roommate."

Donut groaned loudly, melodramatically slumping against the wall. "Ugh. I was in such a good mood, too. Why'd you have to bring that up?"

"Because I like pissing you off." Church leaned against the wall as well. "What was his name?"

"Why does it even matter? It was ages ago."

"Will you just—"

"Maine, alright?"

Well, fuck.

"And when you say Maine... do you mean this tall, bald guy with a tattoo on the back of his head that only spoke in growls and shit?"

"That’s him. I mean, at first I thought he was foreign and just had a very thick accent."

Double fuck. There was no chance that Delta was mistaken.

"How does that even—fuck it, that's not the point here, just... Jesus fucking Christ. Dye-Job, you are just one crappy surprise after another,” Church muttered, covering his face. “Like some really gay onion or something."

"That doesn't even make sense, onions are the same all the way down. I like to think of myself as a cupcake with firecrackers in it."

"Whatever, you do you. I just got one more question, then. ...How the fuck did you kill him?"

Donut frowned, the candy cigarette making little circles in the air as he toyed with it. "Did Wash send you?"

"Why would Wash—"

"I don't want to go through these fucking hoops again! 'How'd you kill Meta, do you expect me to believe that it was luck, blah blah blah.' I'm not doing it again! I thought this was over! Was he just trying to lure me into a false sense of security?"

"Wash didn't send me!"

"Don't leave me paralyzed in a room with O'Malley! I’ll bite off every limb he’s got!"

"Why would I—what? This has nothing to do with Wash! Or O'Malley!"

"Then why are people always asking me? Why does everyone in this prison know my old roommate or want to know how I killed him?"

"Because Maine was the toughest guy I've ever met. And you—" Church prodded Donut in the chest, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. "—only got tough after you got here. Even now, you're nothing on Maine. So it doesn't make any fucking sense."

“You’re the one not making sense! And don’t poke me!”

Church thought about doing so again, just to prove his point. Then he remembered what they were talking about, and immediately lowered his hand.

Donut crossed his arms, drawing himself up to his full height as he glared at Church. “Yeah, Maine was big. He was angry. And sure, he tried to murder me just because I tried cooking some chicken for his date. But everyone acts like he was some…” Donut held his hands up, fingers clenched as he searched desperately for the words. “Some sort of… steroided power-armored super soldier! It’s not the impossibility you all say it is!”

"Oh, it isn't? It's no big deal? You fucking moron, you really have no idea what you did?"

"How do you expect me to?!" Donut shouted. "No-one will explain it to me because you're an asshole and Wash is cryptic, like, all the time! How am I meant to know what I've apparently done? I don't have telepathic powers! I’m not an X-man!”

"Ugh, no need for screaming! Calm down! Jesus." Church pressed his palm against his forehead, blinking and trying to think. "...Okay. If I'm gonna explain this in full, I want to be somewhere I can sit down."

"Then we can go back in—"

"Without Disney blaring in the background."

"Lame."

 

* * *

The universe seemed to like O'Malley.   
  
He'd thought that he'd lost any chance of getting to Delta the day that Wash recognised him at the grocery store. At least until he got bored enough to break out. He wasn't there yet, which actually surprised him. However long he thought this fascination with Doc would last... he thought he would have used up everything Doc had by now. But Doc was the gift that just kept on giving, even if he was getting… uppity.   
  
Still, variety was always nice. And the universe, or whatever forces were out there, had conspired to bring Delta to him.   
  
O'Malley didn't track Delta through the prison for long. He just briefly followed him through the corridors, long enough to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. But it was too vivid. Too much detail in the age that had settled over Delta, much as it had for Alpha or for O’Malley himself.

He also didn't follow for long because Delta was the type that was difficult to sneak up on. He was bright. Wary and ruthless, but most of all he didn't hesitate when he thought he was in danger. Gary might still be alive if Delta hadn't shot immediately after coming to false, if 'logical,' assumptions.   


Delta was not the sort of adversary that could be pounced on at any time, or without any preparation. No. O'Malley would have to be careful. But he had nothing to lose, except perhaps his life. Delta had his chance at freedom in less than two years. He had thousands of unproven crimes, including his identity as 'Delta.' Something that, were it proven, would probably get him imprisoned for life. And, should O’Malley ever manage to leave this place, Delta had his little brother.    
  
Oh yes. So much potential for fun. But there was time to savor it. Time to prepare. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and he'd left this particular meal in the fridge for twenty-five years. He intended to enjoy it.

 

* * *

“No. Fucking. Way. You are exaggerating."

"Believe me, Dye-Job, if anything I downplayed it."

Donut had followed Church into the yard during the long and, in Donut's opinion, way overdue explanation of why everyone knew Maine and just how much of a badass the guy had been. Now they were just walking about in one large, slow circle around the yard. Church was watching him with a slightly suspicious expression, though at least it wasn't like Wash's borderline murderous stare whenever this subject had come up a decade ago.

Donut didn't speak for a long time, instead just absently staring at Flowers as he gave what seemed to be a pep talk, judging by the body language, to North and South, who wore expressions of mild interest and severe homicidal urges respectively.

He tried to remember anything that suggested Maine was some kind of ultra-skilled, bloodthirsty mercenary. Apart from his ability at video games that involved guns or gruesome death he couldn't recall any signs. It did explain why Wash was so skeptical about it being luck, but...

"That thing about fighting through a horde of policemen has to be a lie," Donut muttered.

"Okay, I didn't actually witness that, but that place was surrounded and he clearly didn't get caught, seeing as he ran into you and all," Church said, shrugging. "Maybe he was just fast. But everything else is definitely true."

"Like the thing where he took out a warehouse of guys while you just hid in the corner?"

"Okay, look, I didn't hide. It was a strategy that didn't pan out."

"Why were you fighting a warehouse of guys?"

"We needed the shit in the warehouse. Duh."

"But why?"

"The fuck does it matter, Dye-Job? I don't question why your stories always start with you baking a fuckdozen cakes!"

"Alright, alright, just..." Donut pressed his forehead to his hands. "Ugh, this hurts my head."

"Tell me about it. My head's been killing me since I found out about this."

"So, when uh... what's his face... Denzel? When he said my reputation proceeds me, that's what he meant? How many people knew Maine?"

"Maine... got around a lot. There's probably a good amount of people that had at least heard of him. Back when you were first dropped here, anyway. Maybe not so much now, only the older guys would still remember him. You should have dropped the name earlier, would have scared people off easy."

"You saying that back then I could have just said 'by the way, I killed this guy' instead of lifting all the weights and cutting my hair and getting a tattoo of a horse with a sword on its head?"

“You mean the unicorn?"

"It's not a unicorn!"

"But yeah. Hell, I woulda been fucking terrified of you if you said it back then. Never would have offered protection, I wouldn’t have thought you fucking needed it.”

“...And now?”

“Now? Well…” Church crossed his arms, eying Donut. After a long moment of consideration he said, “Maybe a little afraid. But only in the same way that I’d be scared of, say, a well-trained dog.”

“Am I a poodle? No, wait! A labradoodle!”

“Shut up, Dye-Job, that’s not the important bit. Actually, no, wait. It is. Because yeah, maybe you could kill me like…” Church snapped his fingers. “But you probably won’t, because you’re fuckin’ Dye-Job. You’re a fucking labradoodle with security credentials. Maybe I’m a bit less sure on the whole 'Donut doesn't kill people on purpose' thing—"

"I don't! It was self-defence!"

"—but way I figure it, if you wanted to strangle me in my sleep or whatever you would have done it by now. I just want to know how the fuck you managed it."

Donut grimaced. "Yeah, well... last time I tried to explain, I got locked in a room with O'Malley because Wash thought I was hiding kung-fu abilities. I'm not going through that again."

"You can't lie for shit, Donut. You’re fine."

Donut glanced suspiciously at Church before looking downwards. “If I explain… then we don’t have to talk about this again, right?”

"Yeah, it's not like I want to bring up the death of one of the, like, eight people I've met before prison all the fucking time."

“Fine. Fine…” Donut rubbed his fingers nervously as he considered his words. “Maine started it, and I’m still not sure why. I was just trying to make him chicken, and… and he just attacked me. We… we fought, and he got me by the throat. Tried to strangle me. And… and someone rang the doorbell.” Donut stopped for a moment, frown deepening. “Come to think of it… I still don’t know who did, but whoever they were… well, it distracted Maine. I kicked him in the crotch, grabbed my knife, and I didn’t look. I just stabbed… and I got him in the throat. Then I just kept going. I stabbed until he didn’t move anymore. So… there.” Donut lifted his hands and performed half-hearted jazz hands. “That’s it. Luck was the big secret.”

Church gave Donut a bewildered look. “And Wash thought secret kung-fu skills was more plausible than that?”

“You believe me?” Donut asked, a knot of fear that he’d be subjected to more interrogation loosening.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, Maine was insanely badass. But luck is the great equalizer.”

"I know, right? ...So, we're done?"

Church sneezed before replying, "Yeah, I think we are. But, you know... if you ever think you need to look tougher than what you're trying right now... you should just bring that up. Better than changing to fit prison. Dangerous shit, that."

"Oh, you say that now?"

"Didn't really notice you doing it until you had muscle and less hair." Church wiped his nose again and sniffed. "Guh, fucking Tucker and his cold germs, I'm gonna kill him... But anyway, you brought up the unicorn tattoo--”

“Sword-horse.”

“And, yeah, a unicorn is very… you. But getting a tattoo at all? Can’t see little Donut doing that.”

“Dude, I’m thirty-five. I was twenty. Don’t talk like I was a small child.” 

“Changing fucks people up,” Church continued, ignoring Donut’s protest entirely. "Tattoos and muscles won't help you when you're out there. You want to do something useful, you figure out what the fuck you're gonna do once you leave here. Anyone who leaves with no ideas tends to come back."

Donut raised his eyebrows and tilted his head while staring at Church. "And you care because...?"

"Because you're an asshole and I hate you. I'd hate to be stuck around you for another couple of decades."

"Yeah, that won't be happening. There's, like... no nice food in here. I want to be outside. Where there's cake."

"...Cake's pretty good."

 

* * *

C.T was not impressed with this prison so far. 

He’d been in a few, especially since he was first placed on a life sentence. (Well… he considered the ‘life’ part debatable, regardless of what he’d told Doc.) From the reputation Valhalla had, from the way the Chairman had talked about its issues, he’d expected hardened criminals. Dangerous gangs. Strict guards. Not sadistic ones, since those were always temporary. Push men with nothing to lose far enough, and any sadists tended to turn up with holes in their bellies. He’d expected a jail that needed a man like Florida guarding it.

But so far, every prominent inmate he’d seen had not appeared formidable at all. He didn’t know if it was because there was more underneath the surface than he could see, or whether the reputation has just been overblown. Either way, he wasn’t impressed.

Of course, he had yet to talk to Church. And he was currently avoiding Tucker because he wasn’t sure if he could restrain himself from punching his face into a bloody, pulpy paste. But before he took on that challenge, he wanted a better idea of the prison. And he had two people in particular that he wanted to talk to. One mostly for business. One for personal reasons. Though there was some crossover.

C.T peered around the yard as he walked, looking for familiar faces. He did see a few. He’d worked with a lot of criminals over the years. It was only when his eye was caught by the artificial shine of a prosthetic arm that he noticed the first man on his list. C.T headed in the direction of that gleam.

He approached quietly, and a little nervously. They hadn’t parted on the best terms.

“Uhh… hey, Demo.”

“Fuck no,” the man said, not even looking up.

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to, Pills.” Demo climbed to his feet. His arm had the appearance of an advanced prosthetic--he must have pulled some strings to get that before being dropped in prison, because he certainly hadn’t had it during his trial--but it was stiff and clearly overbalancing him. “No, I’m not getting involved in your plans. They end in explosions, Pills. Explosions! Fuck off and involve someone else, alright?”

He tried to storm off, but C.T just walked after him.

“Still mad, huh?”

“I lost an arm! Granted, the prosthetic arm was pretty sweet but then someone stole the batteries and put them in the TV remote! And I can’t go to the store to get new ones because I’m in fucking prison! Again, because of you!”

“Okay, look, I didn’t know--”

“‘Go pick up this van, Demo.’ ‘You’re the best with explosives, Demo.’ ‘No-one will know you’re coming and set up their own explosives, Demo.’ Fuck you!”

C.T grimaced a little before putting his hand on Demo’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know. That was a fuck-up all around. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. But we had a guy spilling our stuff to the Director. He’s dead now, does that make you feel better?” He added the last part in an almost soothing voice.

“A little,” Demo admitted. “But I’m not doing anything with you.”

“How long are you in here for?”

“I’m eligible for parole in five.”

“Then how else are you going to pass the time?”

“Ugh, Pills, not this again.” Demo turned around, shrugging off C.T’s hand, before pointing with his fleshy hand at C.T. “Dude, your idea of fun is not what the normal person considers fun. Drug trafficking, blackmail and hitting people with axes? I’m not hitting anyone with an axe, that’s not my style. Plus, I was good with explosives. The fuck can I even do for you in here?”

“You’ve been here for a while, right? You have to have noticed the giant, gaping hole in this prison’s economy. People will buy at whatever prices we want if we’re the only ones doing it, and the twins… they’ve got some pretty potent stuff on the table. Especially those one-ups.”

“Wha?”

“One-ups. Y’know… the blue mushrooms? Because in Mario, you’d get them and--”

“Oh! You mean the Meth-Meth Shrooms that the twins grow? Also, the one-up mushrooms were green in Mario. The mini mushrooms were the blue ones! You should be calling them minis.”

“Do you think I had time to play Mario as a kid, Demo? I was busy,” C.T grumbled. “Last I heard from Sharkface, he said that you were complaining about a lack of painkillers. We can get some of those in, too.”

“Yeah, shit’s been achy since the explosion. But that doesn’t mean you’re luring me into your plans with drugs like a pedophile offering candy.”

“Of all the comparisons you could have made…” C.T scratched the back of his head before sighing. “Okay, look. If you really don’t want to, I won’t push it. As long as you don’t oppose me, then we’re fine. I got a lot of respect for you, Demo. Enough to let shit be. But I need more than a guy who can tell me the ins and outs of the prison. I need a guy who can direct anyone I involve when I’m not around.”

“Huh. That why you came to me before even greeting Sharkface?”

“I needed to ask quick. Sharkface knows business comes first. And… I love the kid, but he is not a leader. You know him.”

“Yeah, I do.” Demo scraped a foot against the ground, thinking about it. “Let me ask one more thing. What is the plan, exactly? You got anything you actually need to do?”

“I do. But… I’m still thinking on the specifics. So for now, I just want to lay out the groundwork so that I can do anything I need to do later. You in?”

“...Well, I can’t promise I’ll stick with this if shit goes crazy. But for the start? Yeah, fuck it. You’re not wrong, prison is really fucking dull.”

“Good. Wasn’t looking forward to finding a different second.” C.T shifted awkwardly for a moment before asking, “So… how is Sharkface doing?”

“Oh, good. Good.” Demo tilted his head, looking slightly over C.T’s shoulder. “Said he wanted me to stall you long enough for him to jump you.”

“...Wait, wha--”

Arms wrapped around C.T from behind and hoisted him up.

“Ambush!” Sharkface bellowed, slinging C.T over his shoulders like he weighed nothing and ignoring C.T’s limbs flailing in the process.

“Put me down!”

“Oh, you’re not getting away that lightly!” Sharkface started spinning around, grinning like a lunatic. “I waited until you were done with business, now it’s time for the waterspout!”

Demo took a few steps back, grinning as Sharkface picked up speed. Though C.T only caught a glimpse of that before everything became a dizzy blur.

“You’re going to ruin my reputation before it even starts, Sharkface!” C.T protested, arms waving ineffectually.

“Aw, you’ll rebuild it just fine. Don’t be a baby.”

 

* * *

It’d been a decent day so far. Flowers had given a pep talk to the twins, and he’d settled a few arguments, and now he was heading back to the yard. The yard was one of his favourite areas to patrol. It was grey, like the rest of prison, but at least it was nice and sunny. And normally the inmates were peaceful out there.

So normally, Flowers didn’t enter the yard--absently humming a tune to himself--to see Sharkface swinging inmates over his shoulders and spinning at a speed that would make the strongest of stomaches eventually lose their lunch. He was unsurprised to see that C.T--C.T or Pillman or whatever he was calling himself nowadays--was the recipient. Flowers gazed at this sight for a moment, then looked around for any other guards.

He was not terribly surprised to discover that the nearest guard on shift was Stassney. Flowers, striving to find a man’s best qualities, would call him imaginative and unlikely to enter unnecessary conflict. If only because that would require standing up and dedicating time to something other than daydreaming about aliens. Stassney was seated on a bench, watching C.T and Sharkface with mild interest.

Flowers walked over and tapped Stassney on the shoulder.

“Oh. Hey, Cappy.”

“Stassney,” Flowers said amiably. “How about showing your skills as a guard and breaking up that tussle over there, champ?”

Stassney looked up at Flowers, then at Sharkface. After a moment of consideration he said, “Aw, they ain’t hurtin’ anyone. Also I ain’t getting in the middle of that.”

“If you’re insecure about your abilities--”

“It’s not a matter of insecurity, it’s common sense. Look at that guy.” Stassney gestured at Sharkface. “He don’t wear a shirt.”

Flowers glanced at Sharkface, then back at Stassney. “Now, Stassney, you shouldn’t be ogling the prisoners. It’s inappropriate.”

“Hey, he’s not bad on the eyes and--look, that’s not even my point. When guys are about to fight, they throw off their shirts so they don’t get blood on them. Or in this case, to show off their tattoos. Kind of like how poisonous animals have the vivid markings? So, following that, a dude who never wears a shirt is ready to throwdown at any given point and I value my nose too much to get in the way of that.”

“Well… that does make a certain amount of sense,” Flowers said.

“Cool. Anyway, you got this, Cappy. I’ll, uh… supervise. From here.”

“Of course.” Flowers approached the tussle, and stopped barely short of the radius in which Sharkface was swinging C.T before clearing his throat loudly. Sharkface came to a slow stop, eying Flowers with a scowl. Nothing new, in that regard. Sharkface was very anti-authority.

“We’re not fighting,” Sharkface said, still not putting C.T down.

“I know you’re not, but swinging inmates around is a danger to the people around you,” Flowers said, using a similar tone to a teacher talking to a stubborn preschooler.

C.T, looking a little dazed, glanced over at Flowers. After a few dizzy blinks, a grin unfurled on his face.

“Flowers. You’re looking… lively,” he said. As he spoke, Sharkface turned a little so that C.T was dangling down directly in front of Flowers.

For one split second, Flowers thought about pulling out his nightstick and hitting C.T so hard that the middle of his face split open like a coconut. It was such a vivid daydream that his vision seemed clouded by red for a moment. Then he smiled.

“I try my best,” he said cheerfully.

C.T crossed his arms, taking on a far more relaxed pose than anyone slung over the shoulder of a shirtless, tattooed inmate should have. “So. Working the prison now? This a promotion?”

“...It’s steady employment. Sharkface, please put him down.”

Sharkface didn’t do so immediately, still regarding Flowers with suspicion, but C.T nodded at him and Sharkface placed him back on the ground. For a moment, Flowers and C.T stared steadily at each other.

Flowers broke the stare by turning around and starting to leave. C.T called after him.

“Hey, uh… you know that was just business, right? Nothing personal.”

Flowers saw red again for a moment. He turned around, his smile a little stretched.

“What would ‘that’ be, C.T? I don’t think about business once it’s done.”

“...Alright. Cool.” C.T looked doubtful. But he grinned back. “Catch up later?”

“We’ll see.”


	3. Chapter Three: Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delta and O'Malley discuss old problems. Doc and Kimball try to puzzle out what the new inmates need, and how much of that they can supply. C.T puts his smuggling plans into action. A truce is negotiated.

Three days after being placed in Valhalla Penitentiary, Delta stared at the bookshelves with a critical eye. Whoever had been librarian last had not done a good job at sorting the books into the right order. Delta would have suffered less emotional pain from this than if someone had lit his eyes on fire.

He removed some of the more obvious mistakes to start off with. Removing authors that started with K from the Y section and such. Checking over each book as he did so for signs of damage. He wanted to know the state of the prison library in detail, and see if there were any improvements he could make. It was important to keep the mind occupied.

He was not assigned alongside anyone he knew. There was a scattered inmate or two, but none of them cared much about keeping order and were happy to let Delta do all the work while they slacked off. There was also only one guard, who was half-dozing in the corner.

Not very secure.

Delta kept glancing over his shoulder. Making sure no-one was sneaking up behind him. But no-one did. The last three days had been spent like this. Scanning each room for an escape route. Delta had also occasionally wandered off on his own to study the layout of the prison. No problems had occurred so far.

He'd tried to request more protection from Alpha. However, Alpha was difficult to talk to as he’d been immobilized due to sickness. He blamed Tucker numerous times and any conversation attempted with him degenerated into him complaining about not being able to breathe and headaches. Tucker's contribution had been to laugh at Church a lot. A perplexing relationship, but it seemed to work for them. Church said he had people who could keep an eye on Delta, but that they could not do much during work hours. They had their own jobs to do.

Delta spent three straight hours re-sorting the library, and cataloguing a list of damaged books that needed replacements. It was far from entirely tidy when lunchtime occurred. But it was a start. When the guard woke up properly and dismissed him, Delta chose to stay for ten extra minutes and finish the current shelf. He was not yet hungry.

In hindsight, waiting until the corridors were empty to make his way down to the cafeteria alone had not been the most intelligent plan. Still, Delta was alert enough that, as he passed the laundry room on the way to lunch, he was not particularly surprised when the door open and someone grabbed him and pulled him inside.

Delta responded as a normal person would. He shoved his elbow into the assailant's face and heard a nasty crack, before wiggling free and switching on the light.

“Omega. I expected you three days ago,” Delta said.

Omega snickered, holding his nose. A trickle of blood escaped through his fingers. "You know, most of the fun ones start by hitting me in the face."

"I do not intend to engage in what you consider fun."

"Yes, well, I didn't intend to give you a choice about it. But enough of that, how long has it been? Twenty years? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-five years.”

“And you didn’t even write or call?” O’Malley let out an exaggerated sigh. “I'm hurt. I feel forgotten. I don't like to be forgotten, Delta.”

“I do not have time to play your games, Omega.” Delta crossed his arms, staring Omega down. “Is this when you attempt to get revenge for past mistakes? Vengeance will not bring Gamma back.”

“Oh, are you going to lecture me on vengeance, Delta? You? Vengeance is the entire reason that Gary’s dead. Because of you getting all huffy about Sigma dying,” O’Malley said. His voice was quieter than normal, and it carried an air of danger much stronger than O’Malley’s usual cackling manner.

“...Yes. I was emotionally compromised and I did not have complete knowledge of the situation. I made mistakes. I am aware of that.” Delta took a step back. “But if you murder me, then it will do nothing except persuade Theta to take vengeful actions again you. It will only continue the cycle.”

“Oh, dear Delta, has your memory failed you in recent years? Have you not met me? I thrive off chaos. The cycle of revenge is something that I delight in. Let Theta come after me, if that’s what he wants. I’ll finish him off, too. Revenge may not solve anything but, oh, it will make me feel so much better.” O’Malley continued to pace around him. “Don’t worry, Delta. I want to drag it out. You’ve had this coming for a long time, and I’ll delight in making you suffer to your last breath.”

“I see,” Delta said.

With that, he lashed out with his foot and kicked Omega in the stomach, before slamming an elbow into his face. Within seconds, he was wrestling Omega to the ground. The response was a token struggle, but mostly Omega just laughed at him.

“Unfortunately, I am not interested in continuing this cycle. There is something else you did not take into account,” Delta said calmly, as he attempted to wrap his hands around Omega’s throat. “I am a relatively healthy man of fifty-four. You are a deteriorating old man.”

"You don't want to do this," Omega said in a sing-song tone, trying to push away Delta's hands.

"No. I do. Eliminating you before you become a threat, while we are in a secluded location, seems the most practical option."

"Who says eliminating me now will solve your problems? Maybe a certain someone left a certain long letter in a certain someone's possession. One that details the crimes of one under the alias of 'Delta,' also known currently as Denzel. As well as the crimes of one under the alias of ‘Theta.’" Delta's hands froze, and Omega smiled at him. "Got your attention now, have I? There's a reason it took me so long to bother you. Had to set my affairs straight first."

Delta didn't move his hands away from Omega, but nor did he go back to attacking. He just stayed silent.

"Now, let me tell you something. Delta. I hold all the cards. Because there is nothing but my life that you can take from me. And if you take that? You fuck yourself big time, because you don't know who I've left these little confessional letters with. You don't know what's in them. Whether it'll incriminate Theta as well, or what it says about the others. But believe me when I say that my death will trigger a lifelong sentence for you."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to suffer. That's my only endgame." Omega grinned up at him, reaching up to wipe the blood from his nose. "I'm an old man who gets his kicks by messing with people, that's all. So there's nothing you can offer me."

"Then why tell me. Why bring this up?"

"Because I want you to know there's no way to stop me without dooming yourself. I want to see all those shiny little cogs whirl in your head, thinking, as you try to come up with a solution that guarantees your safety and the freedom of both you and your brother. And I want to see you once you realise that you don't have a solution. Because that would mean that logic failed you, Delta. And without logic, what do you have left?"

Delta said nothing. Omega slid backwards a little, away from Delta's still outstretched hands. He looked down at the blood smudged on his fingers, before casually wiping it off on Delta’s jacket. Delta did not make a move to stop him.

"So, I thought I'd just test-run you today. Fill you in on the situation. I do hope you don't give up immediately. I forgot how fun it is to have someone who fights back!" Omega left the room, almost skipping.

Delta quietly removed his now bloody jacket and turned it inside out before leaving. Better to look like a fool that couldn't dress himself than have to explain where the blood came from.

He left the room, true to Omega's predictions, trying to think of a better way to remove Omega from the equation.

 

* * *

 

“How much do you think it would be?”

“I mean, I can see if buying textbooks or printing out a digital copy would be pricier. I don’t know if we have that much to spare, but there’s got to be somewhere with second-hand ones.”

Doc had his notes spread out on the table in the breakroom, and was pushing notes here and there while trying to find particular ones. Kimball was sitting opposite from him, peering over the same notes.

“What about drug counseling? How’s the push for that going? Because I’ve got another inmate who could really use it,” Doc said, locating the sheet that he’d made notes about Bitters on. “I mean… I suppose I can do it if I have to, but I’d really like to find someone who specializes. Even if it’s just for a session every now and again.”

“Yeah, I asked Doyle about that--”

“You threw a rolled-up note at me,” Doyle amended from near the counter, where he was making tea.

“Same thing,” Kimball said, leaning back on her chair and looking over at him. “You said you'd think about it.”

“We’re still paying for that plumbing mess last month,” Doyle said, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll look into it once we’ve paid for that.”

“Ugh. And I'll bet that something else comes up that needs immediate attention. It usually does.”

“I also question the wisdom of allowing Bitters and Matthews access to chemistry textbooks when their crime was manufacturing methamphetamines to begin with.”

“That's a fault with the price of education, Doyle!” Kimball protested.

“Meth, Vanessa! Meth!”

“Also I need more paint,” Kimball said, moving on from the topic dismissively. “I think occupational therapy is really getting somewhere.” As she spoke, Doyle shook his head and left the room with his cup of tea.

“Right? I'm this close to getting Locus to have a hobby that isn't staring at people,” Doc said cheerfully. “He agreed to paint if I stopped bothering him. ...Might have to transfer him to your class, though. Not talking to him makes therapy hard.”

“Can't. Tried that already, I'm not risking another fight between him and Felix.”

“Transfer Felix to me, then.”

“But I've gotten him to open up. That took months!” Kimball pushed aside some more notes and added, “I might be able to get him to see you if he defrosts a little more, but right now he's very insistent about not being 'psychoanalyzed.'”

“What are you guys talking about?” An arm suddenly rested on Doc’s head. It was a friendly, casual touch. Even so, Doc froze for a moment before quietly wiggling out from under York’s arm. York didn't notice, more intent on peering at the notes on the table.

“Painting,” Doc said.

“Oh, sweet. Did you see that picture of… I don't know what it was that Caboose finger painted but it sure was interesting to look at.”

“It's in my office!” Doc said cheerfully. “I don't know what it is, either. He gave me this long, involved explanation about someone being split up into different feelings and then those feelings hanging out in their own buddy group…”

“Bizarre.”

“I don't know why you even bother.” South had entered while they were talking, and was pouring out a coffee. “You think that a few paint dabs will stop them from committing crimes?”

Doc shrugged. “If you have a better idea, South, feel free to share.” His tone came out a little more passive-aggressive than intended. A little too chilly. But it was hard to look at South and not imagining her gunning Wash down. At least he could hide it better than Wash, who just flat out ignored her or left the room when she entered.

“I don't, but you can't do shit for them anyway. Some people are just assholes. Or dumb. Or dumb assholes. I mean, sure, maybe some people are just a victim of circumstance or blah blah blah, but a lot of them are just dicks.” South hoisted herself up in order to sit on the counter.

“Cold, South. Just cold,” York said.

Doc eyed South for a moment before turning away from her, directing his attention back at Kimball. “I think we should see if Palomo can appeal his decision. I think he might be legitimately innocent. Just… a little naive. If you could talk to him and give me a second opinion…?”

“I’ll look into it,” Kimball said, reaching out and picking up the notes that Doc had made during Palomo’s session.

York continued to peer over Doc’s shoulder for a minute, watching them work. “Drinks tonight, Doc?”

“I should be free. I'll call you and Wash if something comes up.”

 

* * *

 

Over the last three days, C.T had gotten all the information he could from both Sharkface and Demo. Right now, Demo was contacting anyone within the prison that had worked with him or C.T in the past, scooping up those who could be trusted, or alternatively those who could be bribed. But C.T was staying away from that. He suspected that Flowers might start tracking him at any time, and he also didn’t want everyone that Demo contacted to know he was pulling the strings.

Sharkface, however, he could hang around without suspicion. There was nothing suspicious about talking to his foster son. But when his foster son was yelling at him about vengeance (and lack of) that didn’t really help blending in.

“What do you mean, we’re just gonna leave him alone?” Sharkface protested.

“I mean exactly what I said,” C.T told him. “Trust me, I would love to throttle Tucker right now. But there’s a lot to do here, and a lot of people who might take issue with that.”

“Look, he doesn’t know who I am. I haven't gone by Terrence since I got here. I could ambush him at any time and he’d never see me coming. Literally as well as figuratively. The only reason I haven’t is because I wanted to give you first dibs on breaking his fucking neck. And now you’re just not going to? He deserves it! Or you could burn him alive, I'm not fussy--”

Pillman waited for Sharkface to stop ranting at him. It took a while. Sharkface’s revenge plans were very extensive. Once Sharkface stopped to catch his breath, Pillman took the chance to explain.

“Listen, Firebug. I hate Tucker, I really do. But right now what I need is trade. Contacts. Allies. And right now, Church is the most powerful man in Valhalla. Killing the prison bitch of Church? That's just asking to start a war, and it isn't a war I can fight until we've grounded our operations. Right now, we have to bargain with these guys. We need to extend the olive branch.”

Sharkface groaned in an exaggerated manner, throwing his arms in the air. “That’s bullshit! Can't Church just get another piece of ass?”

“Maybe, but at the very least there's principle involved. How would you like it if someone murdered your, uh…?”

“My prison bitch? I don’t do that. Too many of the dudes here don’t shower on the regular. I just watch the pretty guards and daydream.”

“...Terrence, really?”

“What? It’s called being fucking imaginative. Plus, the uniforms really do it for me--”

“Okay, look, I don’t want to hear about that,” C.T said hurriedly. “And your tastes are an entirely different issue. Just don’t murder Tucker right now, okay? Maybe later.”

“Better be later.”

“You coming with me or are you going to sit here and pout?”

Sharkface grumbled under his breath and followed along, and they both headed towards the murderer’s row. It was mostly silent except with various coughs and sniffles issuing from some of the cells, since everyone healthy was out in the yard. They headed for the cell that belonged to Church and Tucker.

When they reached it, they found both of them bundled up in their sheets and curled up in snotty, leaky lumps on their respective bunks.

“Church?” C.T said outloud.

The lump on the bottom bunk stirred slightly. "Bluh. What? I'm not selling shit today, fuck off."

“I wanted to talk to you, and I’d like to do it as soon as possible. You can call me C.T.”

There was a pause. “It definitely can't wait? I ain't moving from the bunk."

"You can stay there, as long as..." C.T stared at the top bunk, at the lump that was presumably Tucker. "As long as he doesn't stay. I’ll stay peaceful around him, but I’d rather not discuss business near him."

The bottom lump stirred a little more, and Church’s face peeked out. He eyed C.T for a moment. “...I’m guessing you’re not Connie.”

“That should be obvious.”

"Well, I can't move and I'm pretty sure Tucker's asleep. I ain't waking him. So either speak now or fuck off."

C.T looked at the lump that was apparently Tucker. "...You're sure about that?"

Church stared upwards and cleared his throat before saying, "Tucker? If you get up right now I'll give you a blowjob." No response. "...Yeah, he's definitely asleep. So spill. What do you want?"

C.T entered the cell properly and leaned against the wall, while Sharkface remained just outside the bars as a lookout. Just in case any of the guards, Flowers in particular, appeared.

"You're the guy who smuggles stuff in, right?"

"Right."

“I want to set up a business here. I don’t have any intentions on stepping on your toes, but I could use your help.”

"No,” Church said immediately.

"No?"

"I heard you have some pull in the drug business, ‘Pillman.’ And I'm not selling hard stuff. My sources will cut me off."

"You don't even have to be a part of the procurement. But you know who's trustworthy and who isn't in this prison. You have had much more time to figure everyone out. Or you wouldn't still be operating."

"Yeah, I have,” Church said, pulling the sheets down a little and crossing his arms, now in a proper sitting position. “But what makes you think I want to work with you?"

"Money? Similar friends? I hear that Gary knew you."

“I’ll be honest, Gary was a fucking creepy guy and I wouldn’t consider him a friend.” Church stared at C.T for a moment longer. “You kidnapped Tucker’s kid, didn’t you?”

“He told you about that?”

“You think I’d want to work with an asshole that kidnaps kids?”

“Why not? Given your record, I’d think kidnapping children would be rather light,” C.T said, raising an eyebrow.

“Just because I’ve killed children doesn’t mean I have to approve of your bullshit. Look. You do whatever the fuck you want. Trade drugs, overdose in your cell, fuck it. It’s all the same to me, and I don’t care if you dominate that particular market. I won’t get in the way. But.” Church leaned forward, fixing a venomous glare on C.T. “I will not work with you. Ever. I don’t care about money or anything we’ve got in common, that doesn’t make you any less of a prick. I’m not selling to you, I’m not helping you, and you ain’t getting a fucking stick of gum from me. Because whatever chance we had on working together was fucked the moment you kidnapped Tucker’s kid. So stay away from me. Stay away from Tucker. And we leave shit like that, alright?”

C.T took a step closer to Church. “What if I don’t leave it like that?”

“Then ask what happened to to Phil. To Joannes or Jones or whatever his name was. To Miller. Ask anyone who knows why I don’t trade weapons or trade to assholes. They’ll tell you that what I say fucking goes around here. Now fuck off, or I’ll be the one to push shit further,” Church said. With those words, he flopped back onto his bed, wrapping the sheets around him tighter.

C.T left quietly. Sharkface didn’t say anything until they were far out of earshot.

“Can we kill him now?”

“Revenge is better served cold,” C.T replied.

“Yeah, well, it’s a fucking icicle by now. What are we doing, then?”

“Guess we’ll manage without Church. I’ve got a guard we can contact. Do you know Girlie?”

“Uh…”

“The blonde guard.”

“Washington? North?”

“I said ‘Girlie,’ Sharkface. The female guard.”

“I thought it might have been an ironic nickname. South? Texas?”

“You know what, I’ll just point her out to you. Then tell her to make contact with the twins and start moving shit in. Get them to contact you and Demo and tell us when they can get some packages in. It’ll be slower going, finding buyers, but we’ll do what we can.”

“Alright. And what’ll you be doing?”

C.T scratched the side of his face, thinking. “Well… I need to figure out who’s on our side. And who’s on his. I know Flowers is on the Director’s side, but I also know he’s not the only one. But hey.” He grinned at Sharkface. “In prison we have nothing but time, right?”

Sharkface snorted. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

Once C.T was gone, Church flopped back into the mattress.

“Fucking assholes,” he muttered.

“I know, right?”

“Aaaaand of course you’re awake,” Church grumbled, as Tucker untangled the sheets from his head.

“Oh, it was tricky. That blowjob promise was super tempting.” Tucker sat up from the top bunk, sliding down to the ground before reaching out to touch his surroundings. “You know, you could have heard them out. I hate them, but business is business.”

“Nah. Fuck those guys,” Church said.

“Money, though.”

“Fuck. Those. Guys.”

Tucker grinned. Perhaps in an effort to combat that he’d gone a little pink, he aimed to playfully hit Church in the shoulder. However, he misjudged Church’s position and ended up slapping him in the face. “Whoops.”

"Goddammit, Tucker, will you fucking check before you do that?"

"Oh, don't be a baby. So…” Tucker wiggled his eyebrows. “That blowjob still on the table?"

Church rolled his eyes. “Tucker, I can barely breathe through my nose. The fuck do you think?”

“Ahh, you can work around that. Or we could switch it up.”

“...Appreciated me telling them to go fuck themselves that much?” Church asked, raising his eyebrows. Tucker wasn’t quite as dickphobic as he had been a decade ago, but it took a lot for him to want to be the giving party in a blowjob.

“It did get the motor going,” Tucker said, grinning as he crawled onto the bed, leaning towards Church. “Come onnn, we’re both sick. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Church grinned. “Well, if you’re offering that--”

Delta walked into the cell, twisting his fingers together nervously. “Omega has--”

He didn’t get more than two words out before he was overwhelmed with a torrent of shouting.

“Dee, why?!” Church bellowed, throwing his understuffed pillow in Delta’s direction.

“Read the room, dude!” Tucker yelled.

“Do you know how rare blowjobs from Tucker are? Do you know?!”

“You can’t watch! I’m only into that if it’s a chick!”

Delta looked at the two of them for a moment, his face a mix of surprise and slow comprehension. “...Oh. It is unlikely that moving this talk to a later time will affect the situation… I can come back later.”

“No, no, I’m not gonna wait for you to walk in on something else. Just spill it,” Church grumbled, while Tucker crossed his arms and wearing an expression that suggested that, were he still capable of giving a death glare, that he’d be giving Delta the most potent one at his disposal.

Delta tucked his hands behind his back, pointedly looking away from the bunk. “Omega has left a will with an unspecified third party that will, upon either his death or his whims, provide proof of the crimes that Theta and I have done. I do not know if your crimes are included, but it is a possibility.”

“Ah. ...Well, shit. I mean, he got nothing on me. What’s he gonna do, get me a double-life sentence?” Church asked.

“Epsilon?”

“Fuck, right, I stand corrected.”

“Do you know anyone who could seek out information on who might have the will?” Delta asked. “Or anyone that O’Malley may be willing to listen to?”

“O’Malley? Fuckin’ no-one, dude. You’ve met him.”

“You must know someone. You have been here for twenty-five years. You know every inhabitant.”

“O’Malley isn’t controllable, dude. He only worked with us for so long because we fed his weird murder-boner. We can’t do that in here!” Church grumbled, flopping back onto the bed. First C.T and now this. Being the guy who made shit happen was getting real tiring. “I’m not psychic, Dee! I don’t know who he’d go to!”

“He’s got no allies. No-one he could trust with something that good,” Tucker mused.

“He did this so you wouldn’t murder him, didn’t he?” Church sighed.

“Correct.”

“Well, he can’t get anyone to hurt you for him. We made sure of that a long time ago. Everyone knows causing trouble--and especially causing trouble on O’Malley’s behalf--means no goods from me. He’s just locked himself in a stalemate at best. I mean, jesus, just wait for him to die of a heart attack. What is he, ninety?”

"Sixty-eight."

"Yeah. Whatever. Old as balls."

"You're all old as balls. Buncha saggy old men," Tucker grumbled. He waved his hand in Delta’s general direction. “Hey, robot.”

"I am not an automation."

"Well, you talk like one so… anyway, want my advice?"

“If you have any actions to recommend, I would at least consider it,” Delta said.

"If it were me and he was threatening to out my family? Kill the bastard and take the chances. Lie your fucking ass off about the accusations he wrote down. Hope for the best,” Tucker said simply.

“I… will consider it,” Delta said slowly.

"Seriously? I was expecting you to spout some 'no, there's a something-percent probability that something-something-something' bullshit."

“It is currently the most practical idea.”

“Sweet!” Tucker nudged Church. “Dude, I got approval from your former crime buddy. That’s basically like getting approved by relatives. I’ve got his blessing.”

“His blessing?” Church sat up, giving Tucker an exasperated look. “What are we, getting married?”

“No homo.”

“I can’t believe you’re still on the no homo train. What do you even need his blessing for? The moment you achieve parole you’re going to go back to women,” Church grumbled.

Tucker’s response was to open his mouth, close it and then look uncomfortable for a moment. Delta looked between the two of them.

“I will consider my options elsewhere,” Delta said after a moment. “Staying here runs both an increased risk of catching your flu and a higher probability of... awkwardness.”

With that, he slowly backed out of the cell, leaving the two alone. Tucker was still leaning towards Church. He shifted uncomfortably, mouth now twisted into a frown, before climbing off Church’s bunk. The good will from telling C.T to fuck off had clearly evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

“I have to… something,” Tucker said, before practically fleeing the room. Church sighed, yanking his blankets back over himself and curling up.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until five days later that C.T could start getting goods in. Of course, there were limited ways of smuggling into a prison. Especially without the possibility of visitors sneaking items in, since Valhalla only allowed their inmates to see their loved ones through a glass screen.

Still, although visitor’s day wasn’t for another week, Sharkface at the very least would be getting visitors today.

Of course, he wouldn’t be seeing them face to face. Pity, because Sharkface hadn’t seen the twins since he got locked up and he missed them a lot. Comedy and Tragedy--better known as the collective ‘Turret Twins,’ a name that dated back to the foster homes where they’d caused destruction and chaos on such a wide scale that the caretakers had compared it to a military weapon--had been Sharkface’s best friends growing up. Pretty much his only ones in the homes, because the others got sick of him talking about sharks. Their loss.

But that wasn’t why the twins were here. They were here because they were damn geniuses with drug manufacturing, and they had goods to deliver.

The plan was simple. The twins would just toss the packages over the walls, in areas that weren’t too guarded. Sharkface and Demo were tasked with scooping them up. Then they’d hand the goods over to Manly and Birdie, who’d distribute it. It wasn’t as secure as getting goods through Girlie, but she could only smuggle in so much.

There was a patch of dirt out the back--the older inmates had grumbled something about ‘red vs. blue’ and about some lunatic named Sarge when asked to explain what the patch of dirt even existed--that was ideal for this purpose. The only others that ever seemed to come here were a group that sometimes kicked around a ball and seemingly made up their own rules to whatever game they were playing. Because subtlety took too long, Sharkface had just bribed them to keep out for a while.

And now it was time for the waiting game. The waiting game was the worst.

Sharkface huffed from his position as lookout, while Demo lingered around the corner and waited for the package. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall and watched as inmates wandered around the yard.

He spent some time gazing at Lopez and the man following him, who Sharkface was dead certain was a clone. Then he got distracted because he saw Tucker talking to Donut and Caboose, and started pondering revenge again. (The image that came to mind this time was spitroasting Tucker over the fire like a rotisserie shithead. Probably too elaborate. But was there truly such a thing?) He eyed Donut and Caboose for a bit--he hadn’t spoken to them, but Donut had some cool scars and Caboose was a really good painter, so he’d have respect if they didn’t hang out with assholes like Tucker.

Eventually his attention moved on to a trio of guards--two guys and a girl, the girl looking exasperated while the guys chattered. He wondered if any of them were the Director’s people. Whether they were the sort of shitty that came with being a criminal, or just the regular sort of shitty that authority often was. He decided on the latter pretty quickly, because anyone that played ‘Five Things’ that much had to be far too bored to be a criminal double agent working for a shadowy syndicate. And beyond that was a different trio of guards. Why were all the guards in trios? Because they couldn’t hope to take on even one inmate except as a team? This trio was all male, and they seemed to be having a heated argument.

One of them noticed Sharkface watching them, then gestured in his direction. He said something that made the other two sheepishly recoil and cast intimidated glances in Sharkface’s direction, too. After some more discussion, the guard who’d initially noticed Sharkface watching started heading in his direction.

Shit.

“Demo,” Sharkface muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Company.”

“Fuck, hold them off, will you?” Demo whispered. “I can hear Comedy giggling about something, so he’s near. Package will come any minute.”

Well, Sharkface could always punch the guard out, he supposed.

Sharkface eyed the approaching guard, giving him a (hopefully) menacing grin. It was at moments like this that he really wished his nickname was truer than it was. Regular old grins didn’t do the trick. The other guard didn’t even slow down. Sharkface recognised him as he got closer. Stassney. Mostly noteworthy for an obsession with aliens and a face that looked like it came out of a Picasso artwork during his proto-cubism years.

“Hey. You, uh… Sharkface?” Stassney said slowly, squinting a little at him.

“What’s it to you?”

“Relax, you’re not in trouble. If you were I’d send someone bigger over to deal with it, because of the Shirt-to-Throwdown ratio--”

“Smart.”

“Right? Anyway, I’ve got a question. Well, three. But the first one’s real important because I’ve got twenty bucks riding on it. Me, Kilgore and Blanton have a bet.”

Sharkface tilted his head. As he did, he heard Demo moving just around the corner, feet soft on the dirt. And, very faintly, he thought he heard Tragedy’s distinctive little sobs.

“Fine. But I don’t snitch, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s prison code,” Sharkface told him.

“Nah, it’s about your tattoos. Specifically…” Stassney jabbed a finger at the barcode on Sharkface’s right arm. “We have a bet running on whether the barcode has any specific function or whether it’s just there for aesthetic appeal. Blanton says that it’s just to look pretty. Kilgore says that it probably scans for fish food to make grocery shopping easier. Personally, I want to believe it’s a secret barcode that allows you access into a top-secret government bunker.”

Sharkface raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Is it a top-secret access barcode?” Stassney said hopefully. Speaking just as Sharkface heard the soft ‘whump’ of Demo catching a package thrown by the twins.

After a moment of consideration Sharkface said, “It’s a ironical warning that as a culture we are all in danger of becoming products, and a form of protest against a society and government that encourages conformity.”

“...Huh. All that in one barcode?”

“Eeyup.”

Stassney considered this for a moment before adding, “Can I tell the others that my idea was right? I don’t actually have twenty bucks to pay my end of the bet.”

“Since you actually had the stones to ask me face-to-face? Tell them whatever you want.”

“Sweet. Anyway, second question. This one’s more of a personal one, but still regarding the tattoos. Are all the flaming sharks because you really love grilled fish?”

“...No.”

“Are you sure? Because grilled fish is good, I mean, I’d get my favourite food marked on me if I wasn’t afraid of identifying marks. But--”

“Your face is already very distinctive,” Sharkface said.

Stassney paused for a moment. “Really? Shit. Anyway, so… not grilled fish?”

The questions continued. When Stassney said three he’d really meant that number squared. Throughout the conversation, Sharkface faintly heard several more noises from Demo scooping up the drugs. Once Stassney paused when a particularly heavy package hit the ground, and his eyes slid a little towards Demo’s hiding spot, but then he continued on.

It took a long time for him to leave, and that only happened when one of the other guards yelled at him to come back and settle their bet. At which point the conversation cut off immediately, with Stassney just nodding at Sharkface and giving him a thumbs up before leaving to tell the other guards his findings.

“‘Ironical warning?’”

Demo appeared next to Sharkface, grinning at him. It was near-impossible to see where he was keeping the drugs, but Sharkface knew his hiding spots well enough to make out some areas where the clothing didn’t stretch right across his body. Not to mention the fake arm, which people always seemed to skip over checking too thoroughly.

“You are a giant tool, y’know that?” Demo said amiably.

“Meh. You just don’t get it, Dems.”

“Not sure I want to, Sharkface. Not sure I want to.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker didn’t want to do this.

He wanted to pretend that he had no mortal enemies within these walls. But fact was that he and Pillman—or C.T, whatever, how many names could a guy have—had some shit to resolve. And here it couldn’t be done with guns. Sure, he could try and dodge the subject. He could hope no-one stuck a shiv in his back. But fact was… well, being blind made it much harder to see threats coming, and Tucker didn’t want that risk.

He wasn’t dumb enough to approach C.T on his own. He could have pushed Church to organize some protection. (He could do it himself but finding people in a crowd was also a damn struggle.) But… although they weren’t full-out fighting, things with him and Church were a teeny bit awkward and Tucker didn’t want to lean on him more than he had to.

So, that brought Tucker to the people he trusted the most after Church. Not that he trusted Donut, and he certainly didn’t trust Caboose. But better them than a random stranger. He could have asked Grif--who was a jerk but at least he was honest about it--but Grif wasn’t the protection sort. He was just the booze guy.

“I don’t do protection,” Donut said. Tucker could hear the flapping noise of Donut shaking out some laundry, and the air smelt faintly of artificial lilacs. “And you know Caboose is beyond that now.”

“It’s for one five minute talk. Come on,” Tucker whined. “Caboose listens to you, and he just has to stand there.”

“I am here. Why are you talking like I am not here?” Caboose asked.

“Not my fault, couldn’t see you.”

“You always say that. You said that when you were stealing my cereal yesterday,” Caboose said. Tucker could practically hear him pouting.

“Don’t be blindist, dude. Look, I can pay either of you in snacks.” Tucker felt his pockets, having learned to keep food on hand for if he needed to buy favors from either Donut or Caboose. Candy cigarettes for Donut, because apparently that counted as fulfilling his tough guy image. Goldfish crackers for Caboose, because he liked to give the individual crackers names.

Donut let out a thoughtful hum at the sight of the snacks. “Give us both the snacks and I’ll do it.”

“Eh, I mean… you’re not as intimidating, Donut. Not from a distance.”

“That’s not what people keep telling me! Church told me in great detail--”

“Crazy feats of murder aside, I said from a distance. You’re like… too pretty-boy.”

“Cholera is very pretty,” Caboose said slowly, clearly reluctant to agree with Tucker but unable to deny the facts.

“See, he knows. ...Wait, Cholera? Donut, you gonna take him calling that?”

“It’s fine, I know he meant the pastry version,” Donut said. “Anyway, yeah, I’m pretty but I’m a badass now. You just don’t know because you haven’t seen me in ten years. Feel my arms.”

“Ugh, get that gay shit out of my face.”

“Feel my arms, Tucker! Come onnnn.” Donut grabbed his wrist and plonked Tucker’s hand onto his arm.

“Dude, don’t do--holy shit, that’s huge.” Annoyance immediately forgotten, Tucker felt the muscle underneath his hand before pulling away, wiggling his fingers slightly as that would prove the size of what he’d just felt. “What have you been eating? Okay, you’re in. I’ll give the goldfish crackers to Caboose, then you can have the candy cigarettes once I’m done.”

“Gimme one candy cigarette in the meantime and you’ve got a deal.”

Tucker and Donut shook hands before Tucker proceeded to lob a small packet of goldfish crackers at Caboose. Tucker heard the thud of them hitting Caboose and falling to the ground, followed by a muttered “aw” as Caboose crouched down to pick them up again.

“Okay. Which way is he, Dye-Job?”

After receiving directions from Donut, Tucker approached C.T while Donut padded along quietly a few feet behind, chewing on the end of the candy cigarette he’d been bribed with. Still not the most protected Tucker had ever been, but it was the best it was going to get.

“Hey, asshole,” Tucker said as he got close.

He strained his ear for any sounds. He only heard C.T slightly shift.

“Tucker,” C.T said tersely. There was silence for a moment before, “And I assume Donut’s here to stop me from killing you.”

“Hi, Mohawk!” Donut said cheerfully.

“Donut, be cool,” Tucker hissed at him, before turning back to C.T.

“I’m cool…”

“Guess we had to talk sooner or later,” C.T muttered. “The fuck happened to you? Piss off the wrong people? You always had a talent for doing that.”

“What makes you think that? Is it the eyes?”

“The eyes. The face scars. The fact that your lungs practically rattle. Pick one,” C.T said.

“...Okay, yeah. It’s been a rough couple of decades. But that ain’t what I’m here to talk about. Can I sit, or are you gonna be a dick about it?”

God, Tucker missed the ability to read facial expressions. It wouldn’t have done him much good—it was always harder with other con-artists—but it would have been something. Just one glimpse at something that wasn’t a pause, that wasn’t a barely imperceptible exhale.

“Whatever. Sit,” C.T said.

Tucker sat down on the ground near, but not quite next to, C.T. He listened for any sudden shifts, but none came. He heard Donut move and sit a few feet away, foot tapping against the ground.

“Look, I’m not gonna try and woo you with any small talk bullshit,” Tucker said. “Last time we met wasn’t exactly great.”

“Which part, Tucker? The part where you kidnapped my son or the part where you tried to gun me down?”

“You started it,” Tucker grumbled.

“No, I didn’t! You stole thirty thousand bucks!”

“Okay, yeah, but you overreacted. Come on, man, I’ve lost my eyes, my good looks and a good chunk of my lungs. Can’t we call it even?”

“I don’t know. Is that all your son was worth? Eyes, lungs and looks?”

“Meh. I never said I was a good dad,” Tucker said lightly. Of course, he’d do the last twenty years over again in a heartbeat if it kept Junior safe. He’d give up plenty more organs for it. But there was no scenario where C.T knowing that would be good for him.

“Hrm. How is Junior nowadays?” There was an underlying coldness to C.T’s voice that made Tucker very uncomfortable.

“Good, I guess. Hard to understand him, especially given...” Tucker waved at his eyes and shrugged. “What about Terrence?”

There was silence for a moment. “Good. Connie raised him right.”

“Cool.” Tucker fiddled with his fingers a bit. “I… am kinda sorry about that bit. Kidnapping him, I mean. You started it… but it wasn’t cool.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

There was silence again. All Tucker could think was ‘my kingdom for a description of C.T’s facial expression.’

“Listen,” C.T finally said. “I hate you. I hope you die a horrible death.”

“Right back at you.”

“But I have stuff to do. And I don’t need to be looking behind me every moment of the day for a knife. I don’t want to have to keep an eye on Church or your candy-chomping bodyguard over there, either.”

“They’re more like ‘assholes that put up with me’ rather than friends,” Tucker amended.

“What a surprise. I’ll truce. For now.”

Tucker considered it. C.T… didn’t sound like he was lying. A lie would be more concrete. Wouldn’t have ‘for now’ attached to the end.

“And you’ll warn me if revenge starts to happen? Because I’m blind, so like… that means warning me verbally.”

C.T snorted. “Yep. I’ll warn you verbally and give you a ten second running start.”

“Fuck yeah, deal.” Tucker raised his hand for a fist bump, but then reconsidered. C.T was still a huge asshole. He got to his feet. “Great talking to you. Let’s never do it again.”

C.T grunted in response.

Tucker headed back to where he, Donut and Caboose had been standing before, hearing the munching of goldfish crackers as he got closer. When he heard Donut’s footsteps trot up next to him, he pushed the packet of candy cigarettes into his hands.

“Not so hard, was it?” Tucker said.

“You kidnapped a child?” Donut asked. “What the hell, Tucker?”

“He kidnapped Junior first.”

“Oh. Alright, then.”

Tucker came to a halt once they were by Caboose, and turned back to Donut. “I need one more favour. Or rather, I need an opinion.”

“If it’s about your new blindfold, a more sky-blue one would really pop against the orange jumpsuit.”

“No, Dye-Job.” Tucker lowered his voice. “Look, you would have seen his face. Did C.T look like he was lying about the truce?”

There was hesitation before Donut said, “Uh, Tucker? This isn’t really my thing. I mean, I played L.A Noire once but I failed like every case. Had to hand the controller over to my roomie after a while.”

“What does that have to do with--”

“He did the sneaky eyes,” Caboose piped up, talking through a mouthful of crackers.

“Not now, Caboose. I’m getting an opinion from your smarter half.”

“Uh… what Caboose said?” Donut said hesitantly.

“God, I regret getting help from you.”


	4. Chapter Four: Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epidemic of drugs starts to infiltrate the prison and measures are taken to stop it. Visitor's day occurs for Grif, Tucker, Delta and, oddly, Caboose. Wash and York are assigned new responsibilities. Sharkface and Stassney strike a deal. The cells are searched for contraband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to CaptainLeBubbles for entertaining my questions about their made-up film franchise again.
> 
> Also this chapter marks the first appearance of a Grifball character, so if you don't recognise someone (barring Grif's nephew) that's probably where they came from. Shit's on youtube, but the Grifballers are probably only gonna be background characters anyway.

Two weeks after the newest batch of inmates, there was an abrupt rise of contraband being found. Three inmates were found with tablets, one with white powder, and two with some odd, iridescent blue mushrooms. All this evidence was dropped on Niner’s desk.

Niner gazed at the drugs before looking up at Flowers, who had dropped them there. “Do we have any suppliers?”

“I have suspicions, but nothing that can be proven,” Flowers said, sitting on Niner’s desk. Niner had tried to tell him to stop sitting on her desk in the past, but it never took and she’d eventually given up.

“No-one you threw in SHU said anything?”

“The ones with pills and mushrooms were tight-lipped, the one with the powder said that he just found it and intended to hand it in.”

In one corner of the office, Doyle was flicking through some files while Kimball paced restlessly. Niner turned to them.

“What are our options?”

“I can make room in the budget for a couple of sniffer dogs,” Doyle said. “That will allow us to remove the root of the problem. Right now we simply do not have the manpower to manually search every single inmate thoroughly.”

“That doesn’t do anything for anyone who’s already addicted,” Kimball muttered. “We need counseling. Proper counseling specifically for addicts. There’s always been a problem here--do you know how many alcoholics are among the inmates? How many smokers? And with this, it’s only going to get worse. If there’s no market, then the dealing will dry up.”

“In an ideal situation, we’d be able to do both. However…” Doyle flickered through the accounts, frowning. “We cannot currently afford it. It will be a struggle to afford one. And we need to stop the flow of drugs before it becomes a bigger problem. As long as there are drugs available, there will be people who will cave in to buying them.”

“That’s why we need to teach them self-control--”

“If they had self-control, Miss Kimball, they wouldn’t be here to begin with!”

“Maybe that’s the case with some, but we can’t generalize them like that! If we treat them as just numbers--”

“I’m with Doyle on this.” Niner laced her fingers together, thinking. “We need to stop the traffic, first and foremost. While drug counseling isn’t a bad idea, if this continues on then we’ll only end up with more addicts, and if that happens we won’t be able to afford counseling anyway.”

Kimball crossed her arms, scowling at the ground, while Doyle nodded slightly.

“I’m sure I can find some dogs within the next few days.”

“It’s a start.” Niner looked up at Flowers, who was listening quietly and kicking his legs out absently. “You have suspicions?”

“A few.”

“Start following them up. We can’t let this continue.”

 

* * *

 

 

Visitor’s day had always been good. Even before prison got tougher, it had always remained the highlight of Grif’s time. Even more than the days that his pruno finished fermenting, or the days he got Oreos. The only days that had come close were the days when there was no work, no fights and Simmons had been in a relaxed enough mood to be lazy for a bit, and they’d just spend the day napping together. 

With those days long gone, visitor’s day shone brighter than ever in what was normally a sludgebucket of bullshit. The only day where Grif got to see someone whose face he wasn’t completely sick of. Despite that, the temptation to disown Simmons Shirley Grif forever was strong.

“No! No, it was terrible! Where’s your taste, Speedboat?!”

Since it felt weird to call his nephew ‘Simmons,’ Grif had latched onto the first nickname he could think of. S.S made Grif think of boats, and the kid was light on his feet considering the pudge he’d inherited from his mother's side of the family. He was too quick for Sister to catch whenever he swiped snacks from the kitchen. Grif was so proud.

“I thought it was good,” Speedboat said, pouting. “The action sequences were really cool, and there wasn’t enough of those in the first two. I got bored.”

“Ugh, no, you were taken in by the flash! It’s garbage, dude! Garbage! And not the fun garbage like the first two movies were, I’m talking the heartless crap.”

“You just don’t like change because you’re old and gross,” Speedboat grumbled.

“He’s got you there, Dex,” Sister said, grinning.

“You’re only three years younger than me!”

“And that makes all the difference.”

“Also, I looked up ships on the internet and ‘speedboat’ isn’t even right,” Speedboat said. “S.S means a steamship.”

“Ugh, you’re such a fu--freaking nerd,” Grif grumbled. “Truly you have inherited the spirit of your namesake, Speedboat.” He prodded the glass with his finger. “Also Steamship sounds dumb and you gotta have a nickname. No-one in this family goes by their first name and I got dibs on the last.”

“Stupid dibs,” Speedboat muttered.

“Anyway, the internet will back me up on movie tastes. ‘Return of the Son of the Vampire Mummy Werewolf’ is playing Saturday, 7pm, and you’re gonna watch it and realise you were wrong.”

“Fineee.” Speedboat let out an annoyed groan before looking around at the other windows. He often ended up watching Tucker and Junior while Grif and Sister spoke. Perhaps out of fascination with the scars peeking out from under Tucker’s bandana, or the sharp teeth and blue-tinted hair of Junior.  


Grif moved his focus to Sister. "So... what's up with you?" 

"Same old boring stuff. Divorce finally went through."

"Ugh, what is this... third one?"

"Fourth. Hey, he was a dick. Not a punchy one, he was just whiny. Really gross toenails, too."

"Maybe if you stopped marrying guys you just met on a fucking whim!"

"Hey, I gotta find a nice dad for Simmons! Being a single mother is hard, you know? And I’ve got a lot of work on my plate. I need someone to share child duties.”

Grif had to admit that Sister was doing far better than he’d expected she ever would be on her own. She’d gained a part-time job as a bartender at a club, and later gone from that to being allowed to host her own raves. Whatever she’d been doing, it was working well enough for her to have gained ownership of the club, as well as expand into festivals and merch lines. Grif didn’t really get what the hell Sister was doing. Just that her business was booming, whatever it was.

Probably the most impressive shit anyone in their family had ever done, really. Grif would probably get around to telling her he was proud one day. Right now, however, that took second place to ‘stop marrying random men.’

“Besides, I gotta find a good partner now while I can still lure them in with my slammin’ booty,” Sister finished. Speedboat quietly hid his face in his hands and edged away a little. “Hey, if you want to help… any cute guards that aren’t jackasses?”

"I'm not helping."

"Dex, please? If you don't, I'm going to pick one at random."

"Please don't pick Wash."

"Now that you've said it, I'm definitely going to pick him unless you tell me if there's someone better."

"I hate you. If you have to pick someone, go with North. He's all nurturing and shit. I mean, at least he isn't borderline psychotic like Wash. Hey, Speedboat, if she drags one of the guards home with her, you know the drill, yeah?"

"Tell them that if they mistreat her, that Uncle Grif will corner them in a shady alley and beat them to death," Speedboat said, in the slightly dull tone that indicated that he'd memorized that line.

"Hey, don't do me any favours, bitch," Sister grumbled.

 

* * *

 

 

Tucker had realised something in the past decade. Interacting with Junior wasn’t going to go anywhere unless he pulled his thumb out of his ass and actually learned fucking Sangheili.

Part of that realization stemmed from the blindness. Where once they’d gotten by on hand gestures and drawings, that was no longer an option. The sessions following Tucker’s blinding had been awkward and painfully silent, and given the glass screen between them there were no other options for communication except speech.

But the other part of the realization, Tucker could blame that on Grif. Because once Grif’s nephew got old enough to carry a conversation, the chatter about movies and sports and dumb things that classmates had said… that had washed over the silence between Tucker and Junior, and Tucker had realised just how little he knew about his own son.

Still, learning Sangheili was a slow process. At first, there’d been almost no resources on it. Even fewer that Tucker could access without eyesight.

He’d spent some years slowly learning word by word with the help of Kimball, who’d tracked down a couple of books and tried to help him go through them. The issue was that she didn’t know Sangheili either, and so the pronunciation had been completely mangled. The language had a lot of apostrophes in it. So anything he said had been unintelligible.

A year ago, however, they’d gotten an inmate who knew the language and was amiable towards teaching Tucker. Tucker couldn’t actually remember his teacher’s name--it also had a lot of apostrophes--but Caboose continually called the guy Santa, and everyone else including ‘Santa’ had just rolled with it.  In any case, the guy was a patient teacher but was definitely teaching him a really archaic form of the language.

It was helping, though. Tucker wasn’t fluent yet, and he didn’t understand Junior entirely. But it was a start. And Junior didn’t mind helping, even if occasionally that help digressed from ‘what’s the word for basketball.’

“I dunno, I mean, I wanted to learn how the Space Jam theme works in Sangheili but if slam and jam don’t rhyme then what is even the point?” Tucker sighed. “It’s like saying ‘come on and slam, and welcome to the party.’ Doesn’t work.”

There was silence, then a hurried reply. Presumably, Junior had been nodding then realised that wasn’t audible.

“Wait, party rhymes with slam? I didn’t know the word for party, Santa taught me how to say ‘soiree,’ ‘celebration’ and ‘saturnalia.’ Problem solved. High five.”

Tucker bopped his hand against the glass and heard a little thunk in response, indicating that Junior had returned the gesture.

“So, how’d your last game go? You kick their asses?”

Tucker pieced together enough of the response to get a general positive vibe from Junior’s response. Although he didn’t really need the words for that, since Junior sounded happy about it. Even so, Junior had managed to get a basketball-related scholarship for college, so Tucker had needed to figure out a bunch of sports terms. Although sport was an area he’d never gotten super into to begin with, so fuck if he could remember the rules. That made these basketball conversations two languages that he could only understand a little.

Junior’s voice was much deeper these days. It was strange, since Tucker still couldn’t visualize Junior as anything but an eleven-year-old, even though he was twenty-one. The idea of Junior being a fully-grown adult was almost impossible to comprehend. Tucker wondered if he was big or small, whether he’d inherited size from Tucker or Crunchbite. He thought about asking, but never did.

“How’s your other dad?”

Junior talked about how Crunchbite was good, about how he was doing some new science things. That was the point where Tucker lost the thread of it, except that it had something to do with petri dishes.

“Sounds weird. Tell him I said it sounds weird. Or don’t, y’know, whichever. Up to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Theta looked nervous almost to the point of nausea. Delta supposed that was understandable. Prison had been something they'd both sought to avoid for the majority of their life, and being this close to it couldn't be helping those fears.  


“Dee, you look terrible,” he said. “You feeling okay?”

Delta grimaced a little. “I caught the flu. It was inevitable, given the close proximity to those carrying the germs.” He rubbed his face, as if he could wipe away the signs of fever, before blinking tiredly at Theta. “It will pass.”

“Okay. Um… how’s prison? Did you see, uh… y’know?” Theta fiddled with his fingers, eyes briefly sliding to the guard in the corner.

“Leonard is doing better than I would have thought. Both emotionally and regarding status. As for O’Malley…” Delta considered telling Theta what was happening, but decided not to bring premature panic into this. “That is a complicated scenario that will take some time to sort through.”

Theta tilted his head, watching Delta closely. Clearly seeing that there was more to it than was being said.

“Are they still mad?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“That’s fair.” Theta focused entirely on his twitchy fingers. “I know Leo knows, but does O’Malley know what I did?”

“I do not have that information.”

“If he doesn’t… and if he starts getting, um…” Theta shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, you know how O’Malley is. Will he leave you alone if you tell him that it was my fault? If you tell him what I did? You shouldn’t get the blame for it.”

“Given O’Malley’s past--” Delta was interrupted by several hoarse coughs, and covered his mouth for a moment. He continued once he’d lowered his hand. “He is not the sort to let a victim go just because there is a more accountable one to be found.”

“Right…”

Delta let out a few more coughs before leaning forward a little, lacing his fingers together. “Are you functioning well? Your clothing looks like it has not been ironed.”

Theta pouted a little, fiddling with his crumpled sleeve. “Ironing is boring. And I don't normally go anywhere, so...”

“Iron your clothing, Theon.”

“Okay…”

 

-

 

Donut and Caboose were eating lunch alone that day. Donut knew his mothers weren’t coming in that time (they were getting older, and the trip was getting harder to make) and Caboose hadn’t had a visitor since Sheila started working at the prison. Donut had gotten a book about dinosaurs with a plentiful amount of pictures from the library, and Caboose was peering at the pictures.

It had evolved into a rather intense discussion.

“How can you say that the ankylosaurs is the best?” Donut protested. “It can’t be the best dinosaur if it can’t fly. Pterodactyls are way better.”

"I do not know what a terry-dack-all is. I think you made that up."

"Pointy head, flies around?”

"Oh, puh-terry-dack-alls."

"The P is silent, Caboose."

"That is probably very useful. Then the big dinosaurs cannot hear them when they are going to the bathroom." Caboose paused before adding, “Those are not dinosaurs.”

“What? Sure they are!” Donut protested.

“Puh-terries are not dinosaurs. They are just very big flying lizards.”

“...So, dinosaurs!”

“Ankle-sores are the best. They’re round and pointy. They look like they would hug very well if they had hands.”

“Caboose!” North approached the table where the three were eating. “You have a visitor.”

“...Sheila?” Caboose asked, confused.

“No, Sheila works here, remember? She's in the infirmary right now."

"I do not get visitors except for Sheila."

"Well, I guess that's changed. Go on."

Caboose stood up, scooping up his remaining food and his juice box before heading for the visitor’s room. Donut picked up his own juice box and followed.

"You know anyone who'd visit you?"

"No. I am very confused. I think someone must have wandered in by mistake."

"And asked for you by name?" Donut asked.

"They must have gotten the name wrong, too."

They arrived at the visitor's room. South was at the door, looking up and down the corridor. When she saw Caboose approaching she said, "About time. Get your ass in there, Caboose."

"Okay, Miss Grumpy McBritches."

"If you keep calling me that you're going to get a nightstick in the face," South muttered under her breath as Caboose went into the room. She slammed the door shut behind them.

Donut sat down, anticipating a long, boring wait. As it turns out, this was not an accurate prediction. The door slammed open again barely ten seconds later, followed by Caboose practically fleeing the room.

The look on his face… Donut had rarely seen Caboose looking that angry. The only times he had had been immediately followed by Caboose trying to break someone's bones. He hadn't seen that expression in at least a decade.

"Caboose? What—"

“There was a mistake,” Caboose said shortly, before heading off down the corridor.

“Hey, wait! Caboose, hold up!” Donut jogged after him. “That’s all? It was just a mistake?”

Caboose stared straight ahead for a few moments before looking at Donut. “Joffre Cake?”

“Yeah?”

“Do not ask me again about it.”

“Oh. Is it really that bad?”

“...Do you like the t-rex? Lots of people like the t-rex.” Caboose’s tone was light, but a little bit strained. Donut looked at Caboose for a moment longer, frowning a little, before letting the subject go.

“Honestly, the t-rex is super overrated. It can’t fly, either.”

 

-

 

"What is that?"

"I'm making dolls." Doc was sitting in the slightly torn, lumpy armchair that he'd replaced his office chair with (therapists sit in fancy armchairs, he’d insisted, ignoring Wash pointing out that it was hardly a fancy chair), his legs hanging over one of the arms as he fiddled about with a needle and thread. Doc's skills at needlework were not the best, and so the hand-made doll in his hand had a warped, badly-put-together face and looked nothing short of horrifying.

"Why? Just why?" Wash questioned from his seat on the sofa. He had his legs splayed out over the other cushions and looked ready to fall asleep. 

"Well, I heard that doll therapy was good for Alzheimer's so—"

"I don't think that doll's going to be good for anyone. It looks like it has a taste for human flesh."

"I'm working on it!"

"...Give it sharper teeth."

"You're not helping," Doc grumbled. Wash snickered before tucking his hands underneath his head.

"You doing anything tonight? York is busy, but—"

“Can we go somewhere that isn’t a bar? I mean, I like the bar, it’s got a nice atmosphere, but there's only so many drinks I can order that aren't alcoholic there.”

“If you want to come over that’s fine, but the only DVDs I’ve managed to dig up that we haven’t watched already are either violent or about animals. So the choice is ‘a dog runs away to become a wild dog and his nemesis is a feral cat’ or ‘a dog and a dolphin fall in love.’ Don’t ask.”

“Aw, that second one sounds adorable," Doc said as he tried to stitch a friendlier smile on the doll and only succeeded in making the unnerving smile wider. "I’m in. Work should end on time, it’s been pretty good lately. Even O'Malley's been quiet, if a bit weird."

"And for him, weird is...?"

"He just turned up, handed me his will, told me not to open it until his death and ran away again."

"...What."

"That's what I said!"

"Huh. If it was anyone but O'Malley, I'd tell you to put them on suicide watch. But it's O'Malley, so hallelujah if he goes for it."

"Washington!"   


"What?!" Wash sat up straighter, looking more awake. "Hey, if you're concerned, just read the thing. It'll probably tell you if he's planning anything that you don't approve of."

"No. That's an invasion of privacy."

"Oh, who cares? Is it in your desk?" Wash clambered to his feet and headed towards Doc's desk.

"Huh? Hey, no, no, no!" Doc dropped the half-finished, nightmare-inducing doll and leapt after Wash, hands reaching for his arm but awkwardly hovering, not wanting to grab Wash in any aggressive way. "Come on, you can't do that! I have a therapy oath!"

"Therapy oaths don't hold if keeping the information secret is harmful to someone."

"You don't know that it's harmful!"

"You don't know that it's not," Wash said as he rifled around in the drawers. "Knowing O'Malley? It's probably gonna fuck over someone." He pulled the letter out. "This it?"

"Wash, come on, give it back!" Doc tried to grab the letter from him, but Wash held it out of reach.

"I don't know how I'd manage your job," Wash mused, staring at the letter. "Listening to criminals whine about their problems. Keeping secrets for them, even ones you're not allowed to know."

"That's rich coming from you," Doc said under his breath as he tried jumping in order to grab the letter. "I suppose you're completely in the open? Told York about your past, have you?"

Wash looked like he'd just been slapped. Doc stopped trying to grab the letter, suddenly looking guilty.

"I'm sorry, that was—"

"It's fine."

"But—"

"It's fine." Wash looked at the letter again, frowning. "Never said I was trustworthy. I mean, I am the one trying to open confidential letters." He dangled it in front of his own face. "Just a lot O'Malley's been hiding... and I just wonder what's so important that he would have to put it in a will. Man doesn't own shit." Wash stared at the letter for a few moments longer before handing it back to Doc. "But not my job. Not my business. Right?"

"...Thanks."

"Not really something you should be thanking me for. 'Thanks for not being a dick at the last second.' Now add some teeth to the creepy doll."

"I'm not adding teeth."

"What about little devil horns?"

"Wash, it’s supposed to look comforting! And I don’t want to get in trouble with the Christian inmates.”

* * *

"Hey! Hey, Murphy, if I give you my lunch tomorrow will you give me the stuff I can use for pruno from your meal? ...Okay, fuck you, too. Scully? What about you? ...Fuck the both of you."

It was in this highly sophisticated manner that Grif attempted to negotiate for more pruno ingredients. He ran out if he only stuck to what he could get from his own meals, or what he could steal from Donut and Lopez.

“What about you? Hey, Big-and-Creepy! You wanna trade? ...Fine, jesus, don’t glare at me.”

He was feeling pretty good, just like he did after any visit by Sister and her kid. But now he had a month to get through before the next visit, which meant he needed alcohol. Lots of it. And his supplies had run out three days ago. He had his hands in his pockets to avoid giving away the slight tremors in them. His current batch wasn't far from fermenting, and the fruit he’d gotten from Bitters and Matthews was a start, but he needed to prepare for the future.

“Uhhh… oh, hey!” He spotted a pair of sunglasses with red lenses. He was pretty sure no-one was even supposed to have sunglasses in here, but the guy wearing them had always waved it off with ‘prescription.’ “Hey, Goose!”

“Birdie,” the man huffed.

“Whatever, you’re still covered in feathers. Will you trade me your fruit and orange juice tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll give you the rest of my food.”

“I work in the kitchens. I don’t need your food. Besides.” Birdie scowled at Grif, staring over those gaudy red lenses. “You cost me a decent roomie. Now I’m lumped with Palomo, and he just will not. Shut. Up.”

“Hey, if guys like you were more willing to sell me fruit and orange juice I wouldn’t have to resort to making trades like that,” Grif said.

Birdie sighed before flopping backwards so that he was sprawled out on the bench. “Aren’t you sick of jailhouse liquor anyway? I’ve tried it. Tastes like rotten orange juice.”

“My choices are shitty liquor or being sober, dude.”

“Oh, there’s much stronger choices than that.”

"...Okay, you're leading into a drug deal, aren't you?" Grif grumbled.

"Well, if you're going to be that forward about it..."

“Fuck off, dude. I’m not into that shit. Liquor’s one thing, but I’m not explaining to the guards why I have drugs on me. Too much risk, not enough return.”

"Really? Given that you're constantly drunk, I would think the occasional other pick-me-up wouldn't be far from—"

"You know the guy I was put in here for murdering was a druggie, right? Get the fuck out of my face."

“...But you approached me.”

“Your face approached you!”

“Are you sure you’re not on drugs already?”

“Fuck off!”

“Okay, okay. But if my boss asks, I gave you the know ‘stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, I can show you the world’ speech. Oh, and obviously if you tell the guards I have to kill you.”

“Dude, I know the rules. I’ve been here for nineteen fucking years.”

“Wow. No wonder you drink so heavily. I do have some shit that makes shit really speed up, if that helps. You ever have any one-ups?”

“Like from Mario? Wait, no, fuck off. I don’t care. Sit on this and rotate,” Grif said, raising his middle finger before leaving.

Sure, he wouldn’t have said no to some weed on the outside. But anything stronger? Fuck, he’d seen Sister in the hospital after she overdosed. He knew not to go there, no matter how good the time passing quicker sounded. Just… no. And it wasn’t worth the risk, not with only a year left on his sentence before potential parole.

It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

It took three days to locate some dogs. Unfortunately, Doyle had also discovered that the budget was too tight to afford particularly well-trained dogs, or for that matter any dog trainers to go with them. So instead, Wash and York had been called in to see the dogs, and Flowers had cheerfully handed them two leashes, a bag of dog treats and a book titled ‘Sniffer Dogs For Dummies.’ Despite Sarge’s decade-long absence, it seemed that the prison hadn’t lost all incompetency.

Wash and York stared at the two dogs, each holding one leash. Both of them were the same breed, Belgian Malinoises. The male was the hugest dog that either of them had ever seen, with little splotches across his nose. The female was much smaller, but much more vicious-looking. She had several scars and only one good eye.

“So. How cheap did Doyle get these two for?” Wash asked.

“I tried to ask, but apparently C.C growled at him and he fainted.” York had the leash of the scarred dog, and he knelt down in front of her. “Whoever he bought these from, I’m sure they’re happy to be away from them. Isn’t that right, girl?”

C.C sniffed at York once before wagging her tail and sitting down in front of him. When Wash got close, however, she snarled at him.

“She’s… a little vicious, isn’t she?” Wash asked warily.

“Sure. She’s a security dog.”

“Sniffer dog,” Wash corrected him.

“Same difference. No appreciation from these two-eyes, C.C? I know that feeling.” York scratched her neck, receiving a wag of the tail in return.

"York, she's not a pet poodle." Wash looked down at the male, whose leash he was holding. The dog, Freckles, stared at him. Wash got the sense that Freckles was unimpressed with his handler. He certainly wasn't warming up like C.C was to York. "And I have to do this because—"

"Because we happened to be walking by. Now quit your whining. They can smell fear. And whining."

"I'm not a dog person," Wash mumbled.

"You're not an anything person. It's part of your charm. Well, I call it charm."

"Shut up."

"You're just jealous because Freckles isn't bonding with you."

"No."

"Don't deny it. I can see it all over your face." York ruffled C.C's scraggly fur, grinning smugly at Wash. "I am the dog whisperer!"

"Yeah? Here you go." Wash shoved Freckles' leash into York's hand. "You deal with it." He tried to leave, but Freckles moved to stand in between him and the door and barked once. Wash hadn't thought dogs were intelligent enough to know when people were ditching work around them. He stood corrected. "Oh, you have got to be kidding."

"Oh, look, he's bonding with you," York said, his grin getting wider.

"Bonding? I think he's planning to kill me," Wash said flatly.

"Same thing."

 

-

 

“How’d you know about this, anyway?”

“Got bored. Wanted somewhere to hang. Walked around kicking doors until one of them opened,” Sharkface said. “Turned out to be a good room.”

Demo had detached his prosthetic arm, and was using it to reach further up and poke a tub further back on the higher shelf. From the plastic tubs lying about, this looked like it was meant to be a storage room for whatever belongings inmates had when they first entered the prison. Probably on stand-by in case the main one was full.

Whatever the reason, it was perfect. No-one came here. People thought it was locked. And there were a shitload of empty, plastic tubs that could hide a lot in them if no-one bothered to take them down and have a look.

“Suppose it’s about time kicking shit came in useful,” Demo muttered.

“Kicking shit doesn’t need to be useful.” As if to emphasize his point, Sharkface gave one of the plastic tubs on the bottom shelf a kick with his foot.

“Sharkface, really?”

Sharkface was about to respond when he heard the sound of a doorknob rattling slightly. He looked at Demo, who quickly pulled his unattached arm back down.

If Demo got caught, that would be a bigger problem than Sharkface being caught. Demo was the go-between. Demo was the second-in-command. Sharkface was mostly there because of nepotism. So he gestured for Demo to hide behind one of the shelves and to slip out when he got the chance. Demo gave a thumbs up before slipping into the shadows.

The doorknob rattled a bit more, then there was a muttered, “Oh, come onnn.” Then another rattle followed by a click. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Sharkface recognised that voice. Jesus, was Stassney following him? What was it about him and Demo doing crime together that drew Stassney like an anglerfish’s light? Or was this the culmination of Stassney’s habit of covertly ogling him whenever he was doing exercises in the yard?  


Well, whatever. He could talk or punch his way out of this. Sharkface stepped out from the shelves and saw Stassney closing the door, not looking his way.

“Sup.”

“Oh god!” Stassney yelped, jumping back before his eyes landed on Sharkface. “...Oh. Oh, it’s just you, Sharkface. Jesus, don’t startle me like that. Never know where they’re hiding.”

“Whatcha doing here, nerd?”

“...Nothing. I’m not doing no-one,” Stassney said evasively. 

Sharkface said nothing. He only raised an eyebrow and stared Stassney down.

“Alright, alright. That door unlocks if you jiggle the knob right and I sneak up here to take naps sometimes. Happy?” Stassney paused for a moment. “...Wait. You’re not supposed to be here, either!”

Sharkface shrugged. “Yeah. But I wanted a bit of privacy to...” He tried to think of things he’d want privacy for. Things that weren’t taking a dump or jerking off. Crying? No, he was too cool for that. “To… to read.”

“You’re not carrying a book--”

“I was jerking off.”

“Oh. Ohhh.” Stassney’s eyes flickered downwards for a moment before he quickly looked away. “Cool. Yep.” He scratched the back of his neck, his face going a bit pink for a moment, before he looked back at Sharkface. “So...”

“So.”

“I mean, I’ll keep a secret if you can.”

Sharkface grinned. “I’m no snitch. That’s prison code.”

“God bless the prison code,” Stassney said, grinning back.

Demo reappeared behind Stassney, peeking out from behind a shelf, but Stassney was too close to the door for Demo to make his escape.

“Well, prison code isn’t your code, though,” Sharkface said. “We need more than the code.” Sharkface’s grin got even wider. “We need a blood oath. Always wanted to do a blood oath.”

“You mean, like… when you cut the palm of your hand and do the handshake?” Stassney looked at his own hand with a frown, wiggling the fingers. “People would ask questions, and I don’t have a knife on me. You got a shiv? ...You probably shouldn’t, but do you?”

“Nah.”

“Oh. Well… a blood oath sounds hardcore, but...” Stassney looked at his own hand. After a moment of consideration, he spat on the palm and offered that instead. “No man breaks a spit oath. That shit is serious.”

Demo was rolling his eyes behind Stassney.

Sharkface eyed the hand doubtfully. He wasn’t into the idea of making any kind of oath with authority, even a dumb nerd who was all looks and no sense. But he supposed there was nothing to lose. He spat on his hand, then reached out and grasped Stassney’s hand tightly. It was warm and comfortable, apart from the slimy part. Gripping tight, Sharkface pulled Stassney closer to him. Just enough away from the door so that Demo could slip through. Stassney looked a little surprised, but then his face lit up.

“Oh, are we doing a homie hug?” Stassney leaned in and gave Sharkface a slightly awkward hug, followed by the pat on the back. Sharkface, after a moment of consideration, followed suit. Then they shared a fistbump.

Demo, looking exasperated as he kept one eye on Sharkface and Stassney, reached for the door. He grabbed the doorknob and started to open the door. The hinges squeaked. Stassney started to turn around.

Shit.

Without coherent thought, he grabbed Stassney’s face and turned it back to him. He didn’t let go, for fear that Stassney would try to look behind him again. Stassney blinked a few times.

“Your hands are sticky.”

“Spit shake.”

“Oh, right. Gross.” Stassney looked at Sharkface, squinting slightly at the position that they were currently in. His face was steadily turning much pinker than it had been before. “Why you grabbing my face?”

“Because… it’s a good face?”

“Y’said it was distinctive.”

“Eeyup.” Picasso had always been one of Sharkface’s preferred artists. 

Demo hadn’t slipped out yet. He was just staring at them. He mouthed ‘what the fuck are you doing’ at Sharkface. Sharkface couldn’t respond without Stassney seeing, but tried to telepathically tell Demo to get the hell out while he still could.

“You hitting on me?” Stassney asked slowly.

Sharkface's eyes darted to the side as he thought about it. “...Sure. Besides, I thought that was why you were following me around. How much staring did it take you to figure out the Shirt-to-Throwdown ratio, nerd? Shouldn’t take as much time as you took.” When Stassney gave him a mortified look, Sharkface said, “I have eyes, idiot.”

“Hey, that was… well, shit, okay, maybe I looked a little more than what was necessary. But that was just...” Stassney waved his hands vaguely. “Window shopping? No, wait, let me try that again.”

“All I’m saying is that we’re already breaking rules by being up here.” Sharkface leaned in a little, so his face was inches from Stassney. “What’s one more?”

Stassney shut his eyes for a moment, clearly trying to pull his thoughts together, and Sharkface used the opportunity to mouth ‘fucking go’ at Demo, who was still watching with a perplexed expression. Demo gave Sharkface one last doubtful look before slipping through the door and vanishing from sight.

Stassney let out a huff of breath before reaching up and tugging one of Sharkface’s hands away.

“Look, not that you’re not…” Stassney looked downwards again, staring at Sharkface’s perpetually naked torso. “...listen, you’re… you are very… good. Yes. And if we were on the outside, sure. I’d be on that like white on rice. But there’s a big, big difference between ‘took a nap on the job’ rule breaking and ‘fucked an inmate’ rule-breaking.”

“Only matters if someone finds out. Prison code. I won’t tell.” Sharkface waited a few moments more, straining his ears to try and hear Demo’s footsteps outside, and when he heard nothing he finally let go of Stassney’s face. “But whatever. Ain’t me that’s getting potentially roasted here.”

It’d be easy to back out now. But Sharkface stayed where he was. Because… well, fuck it. He didn’t have anything to lose, and a pretty nice bit of ass to gain.

Stassney took a step back before finally turning around. He frowned a little on seeing the door ajar, and walked over to it. He touched the door before sticking his head out. Sharkface held his breath, hoping Demo wasn’t still in sight, but Stassney clearly didn’t see anyone. 

After a moment he looked back at Sharkface. He shut the door again and pressed his forehead against it.

“Aw, hell,” Stassney muttered. He turned back towards Sharkface. His eyes flickered downwards again, then up to meet Sharkface’s eyes. “No snitching?”

“Prison code, nerd. Prison code.”

“Well… shit. I’m only human.”

 

* * *

 

 

Church was not in the mood to be figuring out problems. He still hadn't gotten over the drowsiness, though he'd at least managed to climb out of bed today. The flu had mostly ended over the last week, but in his old age the side effects of everyday diseases were lingering longer and longer. It was unsettling if he thought about it for too long.

But he needed to deal with this letter situation. And if O’Malley had given the letter to an inmate, Church asking around about it would tip off O’Malley. Same for anyone on the row. He needed someone unattached.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Oh, that is bullshit.”

“How is it bullshit?” Felix had his chin propped on one hand, and was twirling his spoon with the other. Church sat across from him, arms crossed. “You think I’m gonna ask every single inmate if a crazy, decrepit psycho handed them a letter? You better have some good money or contraband coming for that kind of deal.”

“Hey, you’re not worth that much. I’m only coming to you because Tucker said that you were good with words and tight with some of the inmates.”

“Ew. I wouldn’t say tight.”

“His words, not mine.”

Felix stopped twirling the spoon, nose scrunched up in thought. “I’ll make this easier on you. A packet of cigarettes in exchange for some advice.”

“For advice? Fuck you.” Church leaned back on his chair, glaring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a huffy sigh. “Okay, you know what? I have no other ideas. If it’s good advice, I’ll give you a pack of cigarettes. If it’s shitty, you don’t get squat.”

“Well, this guy's an asshole, right? No friends? Not even people he gets along with out of some mutual interest in murdering people?"

"Nothing like it. He used to have Wyoming and this crazy guy who fucked flagpoles or something."

"Wait, that's a thing?"

"Yeah, don't even—the point is, O'Malley's a nutter with no friends or even people who can stand him."

"Well, if I were in that position… what’s in this letter, anyway?” Felix asked curiously.

“None of your fucking business.”

“Relax, I was just asking. Okay, so if I were in this position… I sure as fuck wouldn’t hand it over to an inmate. Not if I had no friends among them. You know that letter would be open in two minutes flat unless the payment for keeping it secret and secure was hefty.”

Church made a vaguely agreeable grunt in response.

“I’d put big odds on him having not given it to an inmate. And this doesn’t sound like the sort of guy who’s got loving family or friends on the outside. That leaves him with one option. Staff. Inmates only have loyalties to whatever they’re paid with, but staff? Staff at least has to pretend to abide by the law.” Felix twirled the spoon again, grinning. “I’d put money on Doc. He seems like the sort of guy who’s approachable about this kind of thing. But barring him… hm, I’d say your three best chances areeee… North, because he’s best to snitch to and knows how to keep a secret. Kimball, because she’s big on believing the best in inmates. Or Niner herself. She’s the warden, she can’t afford to lose a job this big because she got curious about some psycho’s will. The law is she’d have to wait until his death to open it.”

"Is that a thing?"

"If it isn't, it should be."

Church didn't say anything else after that. He mulled the words over in his brain for a minute, then removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them at Felix. Another moment of consideration, before he tossed an extra packet his way. Best to pay well for decent advice. Encouraged people to keep giving it.

He wondered why he hadn't thought of that. He'd find some way to blame it on Tucker’s blowjob offer distracting him. Really, he shouldn't have been trying to help Delta in the first place. Delta was an asshole. But O'Malley was more of an asshole.

A couple of minutes after he wandered away from Felix, Church received a light blow to the shoulder.

"Ow. Tex, what the fuck. You could just say 'hey.'"

"That's more fun. It wasn't even a hard blow, you sissy."

Church glared at her, annoyed about the punching (a light blow from Tex was worse than from anyone else) and also abruptly angry because there was somehow no gray in her hair. "You dyeing your hair now, Tex?"

"...No."

"Bullshit, you can't get to sixty-one and have no gray. It's against the rules of biolo—"

"They're going to search the cells today. With sniffer dogs."

"Sniffer dogs? Oh, right, the, uh... the drug stuff floating about, yeah? So what? I don't smuggle that shit in."

"I know you don't. Who the fuck would do that for you? But you might have been buying. I mean, you basically went into your cell for a few weeks and refused to come out. Have to do something to pass the time."

"I was sleeping!"

"Besides, you just might wanna clear out any alcohol. I don't want heat on you, because then they might figure out I've been slipping you stuff. Well." Tex pulled a face. "I think some of the guards have figured it out and just don't care. But I don't want them thinking I'm giving you booze, and I know I saw a glint of a bottle when you were walking back to your cell yesterday.”

“...Fuck, I forgot I had that. Thanks,” Church muttered sheepishly.

"No problem. But if they find it don't even try to say I smuggled it in."

"What do you take me for? I'm not an asshole. ...Alright, I am, but that's not the point."

 

* * *

 

 

Demo sat up on his bunk when Sharkface walked in. He took in Sharkface’s ruffled appearance and numerous marks, then covered his face and flopped back down. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t actually bang--”

“I banged a guard.”

“Goddammit, Sharkface.”

“Hey. It was a distraction, wasn’t it?” Sharkface sat down on the bottom bunk, retrieving a book about marine biology that he’d borrowed from the library from under said bunk.

Demo peered over the bunk down at Sharkface, wearing a disapproving frown. “Just because it was a distraction doesn’t mean it was good. What were you thinking?”

“It was a devious scheme,” Sharkface insisted.

“It was not--”

“Yeah?” Sharkface looked up from his book. “Because who do you think gets punished if someone finds out, considering the inherent power imbalance that comes with sexual relations between a guard and a captive? Which in turn flips the power balance towards me, because I ain't got nothing to lose and he does. I can leverage that. When the time's right.”

Demo raised his hand, pointing at Sharkface like he was going to make a rebuttal, then considered it. He lowered his hand slightly. “Good point.”

“Anyway, you’re just jealous because I landed the prettiest guard in prison with my sweet looks, lack of a shirt and impromptu face-grabbing,” Sharkface said, turning back to his book. “Wish high school had been that easy with the seduction, I would have been rolling in dick.”

Demo raised the hand again with new argumentative vigor. “Okay, that is wrong in at least two different ways. One, not jealous. Two... in what world—fuck, in what universe—is Stassney even considered okay-looking? He looks fucking weird. Crooked teeth, big ears and nose, looks like he’s kept on his feet with coffee and energy drinks rather than actual sleep.”

“...Hell yeah.”

“You’re fucking weird, Sharkface.”

“Oh, and I suppose your taste is better.”

“Fuck yeah. I mean, I’m not going to seduce staff members because I’m not a fucking idiot, but if I had to pick one… North. Obviously. Dude’s handsome and would treat me right. Were this, you know, not prison. Why can’t you fuck him instead? I’m gonna have to tell your dad that you’re embarrassing the family with your sub-par partners.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“North’s too perfect. It’s fake,” Sharkface grunted. “He’s leprechaun gold.”

“He’d still make good arm candy!”

 

* * *

 

 

"No. No, no, no. Freckles. This way. Not—okay, fine," Wash sighed. Though this was meant to be him investigating the cells and Freckles helping him sniff out any drugs, it had quickly devolved into him being dragged along while Freckles led the investigation himself. He could have laid down on the floor and everything would have proceeded the same, with the only issue being that Freckles could not carry confiscated contraband by himself.

They were finding a large amount of drugs. Somehow, drugs had never been a huge problem in Valhalla before. Or maybe they'd just never been aware of it. But where before a search might have turned up the occasional drug, now they were practically spilling out the doors. The amount of people they'd had to send to Sheila for urine tests, followed by SHU, was surprising.

Luckily, he wasn’t the only one searching. He was accompanied by the triplets, although it was hard to decide whether that was a plus or a negative. They were… Wash struggled to find words that were flattering. Enthusiastic? For whatever reason the three of them often followed him around like ducks. Something about him being old and having some hardcore scars, which apparently meant he’d had ‘the full experience.’ Only reason they’d seen the scars at all was because they’d accidentally seen Wash when he was on the way to Doc’s apartment and had risked a short-sleeved shirt due to the heat. Never again.

Ohio trotted close behind him, gazing at him with a perpetual expression of admiration. “Hey, I could hold Freckles’ leash for you, if you want. I can do it. I’m really good with dogs. Once I had a summer job where you wear the gear and the dogs attack you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh, I think I’ll hold onto the leash for now.”

“Okay. Just… just say the word!”

Once they reached the murderer’s row, however, they didn’t even have to let Freckles sniff around. The smell of fermenting alcohol was rolling off Grif’s cell, so strong that it felt like it was scorching Wash’s nose hair. The other two triplets, Iowa and Idaho, were already at that cell, but seemed too afraid to go in.

“My nose burns,” Iowa said, covering his nose with both his hands. His eyes were watering from the smell, and he sounded even closer to crying than normal.

“Yeah, that is… that is rank. Like, that is one of the strongest smells I’ve ever smelt,” Idaho said.

" _ Try living with it _ ," Lopez grumbled from his own bunk. At this time of the day, a lot of inmates were in their cells. There wasn't much else to do after dinner.

“Man, you guys are so sensitive about this shit,” Grif grumbled.

Idaho glanced at Iowa. “Five things that smell worse than Grif’s cell. Go.”

“Uhh… rotten eggs.”

“Borderline, but... one!”

“Oh, uh, Grandma when we didn’t go visit her for a while and she went to Heaven in her rocking chair.”

“...Wow, that got dark. Two.”

“Guys, we’re supposed to be working,” Ohio protested. “Stop goofing around.” She paused before muttering, “Dead turtle.”

“Three!” Idaho and Iowa both said at the same time.

When Wash caught up, Freckles sniffed around Grif and Lopez's cell for a couple of moments before returning to the entrance. He hadn't been trained to sniff out alcohol, it seemed. It was even more impossible to stop the alcohol trade in prison, since they made it themselves. Most of the guards just didn’t bother.

“Can you three clear the alcohol out?” Wash asked.

“Can do!” Ohio said.

"What alcohol?" Grif asked, having not moved from his bunk.

"Don't play dumb, it smells like—Freckles!"

Freckles suddenly tugged hard on his leash. Wash had been so unprepared for it that the leash had just been pulled right out of his hand as Freckles tore off down the row.

“Catch him!” Wash bellowed. Ohio lunged for the leash but it slipped through her hands, and Iowa tried only to trip over her and fall flat on his face, followed by Idaho doing the same. Wash jumped over them, hearing Ohio yelling for the other two to stop squishing her, and saw Freckles sprint into the cell that belonged to Donut and Caboose. Wash wasn’t far behind.

Caboose was seated comfortably in the blanket fort that the bunk beds had been transformed into, while Donut was sitting in the corner and using an ice-cream stick to make a soap carving.

Freckles, upon entering the cell, made a beeline for Caboose. Caboose immediately held his arms out wide, his face lighting up at the sight of Freckles.

“Doggy!”

"Oh god! Don't go towards Caboose!" Wash yelled, trying to put as much authority into his voice as possible. He knew, as did all the guards who had ever had to confiscate dead pigeons from his footlocker, Caboose's history with animals.

Freckles, however, practically tackled Caboose, settling into his lap like a cuddly family pet instead of a vicious animal. Donut had put his soap carving aside, climbing to his feet and edging forward with his hands out.

"Caboose. Be careful. Dogs are not as strong as you are," Donut said slowly and calmly.

Caboose frowned, looking downwards. "I will not hurt Freckles. It will not be like Apples."

"How did you even know that was his name?" Wash questioned.

"He is Freckles."

"That doesn't explain—"

"That is his name."

"...Nevermind. Freckles, this isn't your job. If there are no drugs, we have to go," Wash told Freckles, trying futilely to lead him away from Caboose.

Freckles barked once at Wash before laying his head on the blanket. Caboose scratched his stomach happily, babbling about how he’d never had a dog before. Wash wondered again where Niner had found Freckles and whether he was actually a trained sniffer dog, because he was pretty sure this wasn't normal behavior.

"That's just great," Wash grumbled.

Caboose blinked slowly at Wash. "Does Freckles have a job, Washingtub?"

"Yeah, Caboose. He does."

"Oh." Caboose looked down at Freckles. "You should listen to Mr. Washingtub, Freckles. We can play later!"

"Please don't say that."

Freckles looked upwards at Caboose for a moment, before climbing out of his lap and back to where Wash was. Though not before receiving a final scratch behind the ear. He left, stepping over the triplets once more as they had yet to get untangled from the heap they’d fallen in.

The rest of the inspection went smoothly. All it had taken was a few words from Caboose to make Freckles actually listen to Wash and stop dragging him around everywhere.

That just didn't seem right.

 

* * *

 

 

It felt like cell checks were taking much longer than usual, but perhaps it was just because only York and Wash really had the tools necessary to check the place properly. It was a little annoying, but York was at least relieved that very few inmates were giving him trouble. C.C was a huge deterrent.

“Cell check!” York said, walking into what felt like the millionth cell. This one only had one inmate on it. There’d only been the one cybercrime-based inmate in the last load, so Denzel was lucky enough to not have a cellmate right now. York assumed he was the lump under the blankets of the bottom bunk. Though why anyone would pick the bottom bunk when they had complete authority to take the top bunk was a mystery to York.

C.C sniffed around the room a little before barking aggressively at the lump underneath the covers. That probably didn’t mean drugs--sitting meant drugs--but it did mean that something was piquing C.C’s attention, whatever it was.

“Hey, you awake? C.C’s got some kind of bone to pick with you, and I just want to make sure you’re not up to anything?”

There was a long pause. The eventual response was clogged and hoarse.

“There is no cause for concern.”

“You’re not jerking off under the covers, are you? No judgement if you are, gotta deal with the loneliness somehow. But it’s best to do that when the cells close for the night.”

What sounded like it was going to be a disgusted retort was interrupted by a series of coughs. These coughs sounded damp. York hesitated before taking a step forward. He didn’t want to get sick, but that did not sound great.

“You alright?”

The lump stirred. Denzel poked his head out of the sheets enough so that York could see his face. He looked like death warmed over, and his vivid green eyes were glazed over.

“I am running at one hundred percent capacity,” he said, focused at some point up and to the left of where York’s face actually was.

“Y’sure about that?”

“One hundred percent capacity. I am a well-oiled machine! You have no idea how oiled I am!”

“...Alright.” York scratched the back of his neck, looking at the inmate, before sighing. “Come on, let’s get you to Sheila.”

Denzel pressed his face into his pillow, making a protesting noise.

“Are you going to make me carry you?”

“You cannot carry me. I am oily.” Denzel stared at York again and said, in a stern no-nonsense tone, “You will never be as oily as me.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. Up you get, Oil Slick!” York reached down and scooped Denzel up. He was so small and skinny that York could do it without even having to let go of C.C’s leash. He turned around and headed out of the cell and in the direction of the infirmary.

Denzel’s main form of protest on the way there was sleepy, confused mumbling followed by a few half-hearted thumps on York’s back. Eventually, he settled down and went quiet for a few moments.

“...Do you have a will?” he asked eventually.

“Like a will to do or a will to live?”

“Paper.”

“Ohhh. No. You think I should? I don’t really have many relatives who would fight over my stuff.” 

Denzel didn’t respond to that, he just made a grumpy ‘hrm’ noise and went quiet again.

 

* * *

 

 

C.T lingered at the entrance to his cell, watching the guards move around further down the row. He couldn’t see Demo and Sharkface’s cell from here, since they were in the arson section, but he could hear Demo swearing from here as well as York trying to talk over it.

“She’s not going to bite you! You can climb off the top bunk!”

“Fuck that! She’s rabid! Fucking rabid, I’m telling you! I’m not getting rabies, I’ve got shit to do!”

He wasn’t worried. Girlie had warned him about the cell checks earlier that day, and he’d passed that warning onto Demo, who’d in turn passed it to anyone else and made sure any drugs were hidden away in that empty storage room. It wasn’t as if he was dumb enough to keep drugs in his cell, anyway. That was just asking for trouble. So he just watched, taking note of whoever got taken out of their cell and sent off to the infirmary for a drug test.

He wasn’t alone in the room. His cellmate, Coach, was standing in the corner. It didn’t make much difference, really. C.T had expected to get a bad cellmate. He was in the section that had been reserved for ‘so many crimes it’s hard to categorize them,’ and a lot of the people here had headed up their own operations at one time or another.

Coach was no exception to that, having headed up a small group of criminals. But as far as C.T could tell, Coach was just a senile old man who kept falling asleep on his feet. The fact that his entire syndicate was in this prison with him, and spent most of their time throwing a ball at each other rather than doing anything remotely criminal, also didn’t say much about their abilities.

Not competent enough to be useful, nor dangerous enough to be fun. Just his luck.

Eventually, York came to his cell. The one-eyed sniffer dog on his leash looked ready to tear free and eat C.T, his cellmate and whoever else might get in the way. He could understand Demo’s apprehension.

“Hey, uh… Mohawk Guy. Just a routine search, nothing to worry about,” York said. “Hey, Coach!”

Coach didn’t respond, his head bowed and his eyes shut. As York waited patiently for a response, perhaps to make sure that the old man was only sleeping and hadn’t died on his feet, C.C sniffed the air and her ears perked up. Immediately, she trotted over to C.T’s footlocker and sat down.

“And we have a winner! Or… loser, I guess. Doesn’t sound as glitzy, but that’s drugs for you. Mohawk, poke Coach and make sure he’s alive, would you?” York asked.

C.T ignored the request, staring at the dog with confusion. “There’s nothing in my footlocker.” 

York raised an eyebrow at him. “C.C seems to think differently.” He opened the footlocker and C.C stuck her face into the contents. She nosed through clothing, a couple of books and a couple of photos of Connie before emerging, a tiny packet of white powder held in her teeth. “Good girl, C.C! ...Put that down, though. Don’t want you to inhale any of that.”

“What? That’s not mine!” C.T protested. He’d made a very clear policy to Demo and Girlie about it, so they wouldn’t have left him any of the shipment. “I’ll do drug tests, but I haven’t taken anything!”

“You’ll be going for a urine test, but we do have to put you in SHU until we figure out if you’re clean.”

“I am clean! It’s not mine!” C.T snarled. “It… I haven’t seen it before! Maybe it’s Coach’s shit!”

They both turned to look at Coach, who stirred slightly at the yelling and opened his eyes a little.

“...What? Sorry, I was… I was sleepin’ through most of that. What’s happening?” He looked down at C.C. “...When did we get dogs?”

“Go back to sleep, Coach,” York said, before looking at C.T. “Yeah, look, cocaine’s all about the energy and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Coach fully awake.”

“Alright, alright, he’s not an upper guy, but… it’s not mine!”

“Look, you come quietly, turn up clean on the test and sit in SHU for a bit, and maybe things will turn out alright. But fact is we found cocaine in your cell, Mohawk. You gotta come with me. And I don't want to have to carry a second person today.”

C.T ended up just silently fuming over that, but following along regardless. He didn’t want to stir things up with the guards yet. But whoever left those drugs in his footlocker had another thing coming.


	5. Chapter Five: Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without a steady supply of alcohol, Grif turns to alternate means of passing the time. C.T gets a visitor in SHU. A new trainer for Freckles is considered. Delta meets another old acquaintance. And a session of art therapy occurs.

“ _The first time I saw your treads and enormous chassis of steel… I knew that I had found someone to share a robot love so real…_ ”

The next morning, as Donut approached Grif and Lopez’s cell, he heard quiet, cheery singing. Unusual on its own, even more unusual was that it was in Spanish instead of being in Grif’s absolutely tonedeaf voice. Donut so rarely saw--or heard--Lopez in a good mood.

“Hey, guys!” Donut chirped as he entered the cell.

Grif only groaned in response, facing down on his bed with his face buried in his pillow. Lopez didn’t respond, he only continued singing as he made his bed.

“Lopez, that song’s lovely! But why is it about robots?”

Lopez paused his singing, holding his sheets, before saying, “ _It’s a metaphor._ ”

“For what?”

“ _...Something you could never understand?_ ”

“Fair enough! What’s got you so happy?”

“They took my liquor!” Grif wailed, his face still buried in his pillow.

“ _I can breathe again. I have never been this happy,_ ” Lopez said.

“Two weeks of fruit lost,” Grif complained. “I traded favors for that! And then the guards have to be buzzkills about it. Not to mention North giving me this whole ‘you might get botulism poisoning and die’ lecture.”

“Yeah, North has that speech locked and loaded. Come on, Grif!” Donut grabbed Grif’s arm and dragged him partially out of bed. “Food time.”

“Alright, alright, I’m up.”

Donut hovered around while Grif got dressed, despite protests. (“Donut, for fuck’s sake, turn around.” “Oh, I’ve seen your manboobs like a million times before, it’s fine.”) Then they left Lopez, who was currently humming some upbeat tune that Donut thought he heard a mariachi band play once, and headed towards the cafeteria.

“Gimme your orange juice,” were Grif’s first words once they had received their food a few minutes later.

“No.”

“Come on!”

“Grif, is it really so hard to stay sober for a little while?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking difficult! What else am I meant to do with my time?”

Donut frowned as he sat down, looking at Grif as he picked up his spoon. “Maybe you should get help. I bet Doc could help out.”

“Since when has Doc been able to help anyone?” Grif complained.

“He’s friendly and has access to Google, it’s something. I’m just saying… you kind of have a problem.”

“Fuck you, it’s not a problem. I’ll quit once I’m out of here and have something better to do.”

Grif looked away from his food for a moment, and saw a flash of red lenses as Birdie passed by. Grif frowned before looking back down at his food.

 

* * *

 

“Pneumonia?”

“That’s what York said,” Church said, arms laced behind his head as he lounged around on the bottom bunk, staring at the bottom of Tucker’s bunk. “Apparently he was completely off his head. Something about oil. Sounds fucked up, didn’t think that incoherent delusions was a pneumonia deal.”

“Well, he’s fucking old, right?” Tucker asked.

There was a pause before Church said, mildly affronted, “He’s the same age as me, Tucker.”

“Yeah. So he’s fucking old. Anyway, old people go off their heads with that sometimes. You remember, like… twelve years ago, when Wyoming got it? Dude was so high he thought he was working for the Queen of England.”

“Right. Right…”

Tucker dangled his feet over the edge of his bunk. “Anyway, he’ll probably be fine. Plus, O’Malley can’t mess with him in the infirmary, right?”

“Well--”

“I mean, as long as Wash isn’t the doctor there he can’t.”

“Whatever. I don’t care. I mean, Dee’s just… he’s just an asshole. An asshole that I happened to work with way back. That was half a lifetime ago and it didn’t even matter then. I don’t give a shit,” Church grumbled. “I don’t give a shit. I don’t.”

Tucker covered his mouth but it didn’t muffle the snickering.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tucker. What?”

“Whenever you say ‘I don’t give a shit’ more than once, it means you actually do.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah.” Tucker’s feet continued to swing lazily back and forth. “Want to go check on him?”

“Don’t know if I should,” Church grunted. “I’m not supposed to know him that well. It’s a big enough concern that York noticed me talking to him. I’m a former crime boss that has multiple murders to my name. Why the hell would someone like me go and check on him unless I’d met him before? I’d link him to me, and that’d be a dick move.” Church let out a long sigh and added, “Not giving a shit is so much safer for everyone.”

Tucker slid off his bunk and sat down next to Church. After a moment, he leaned a little on him.

“It might be safer, but hey. We don’t get to pick and choose who we give a shit about, right? Or I would have picked some hot blonde with a huge rack.”

“Smooth, Tucker.”

“I know. Anyway, just find something to smuggle to him. Something that won’t get him into too much trouble if you’re caught, that shit’s an open secret anyway.”

“...Smart.”

“Smart and smooth, that’s me. I’m a complete package,” Tucker said smugly, making finger guns at Church.

"Yeah, well, it came with a giant serving of asshole, too."

 

* * *

 

“Freckles! Here, boy!”

Caboose had run ahead of everyone at breakfast and wolfed most of it down to leave time for wandering about the prison, cooing in random directions in an attempt to find Freckles. Freckles was no longer checking cells, which meant he was not working and thus was allowed to play with Caboose.

“Freckles? Freckles, where are you? I brought you my breakfast roll!”

“Caboose. What are you doing?” Wash’s voice spoke from behind him. He was very sneaky. Caboose hadn’t heard him approach. At least this time it didn’t come with a tackle, like when he’d broken Miller’s fingers.

“Hello, Mister Washingtub. Have you seen Freckles?”

“Uh… he’s somewhere. York had him.” Wash squinted at Caboose suspiciously. “You know he’s not meant to be played with, right? He’s a trained animal.”

“But all dogs need friends. That is why they are dogs and not cats.”

“What.”

“Can I play with Freckles now?”

Wash rubbed the side of his face, looking frustrated. “Is this something that you’re ever going to drop if I say no?”

“I would not drop Freckles. He is big, but I am very strong,” Caboose replied.

“That’s not what--nevermind. I, uh… I’ll let him know you were looking for him.”

 

* * *

 

C.T yawned widely and spread out more on the bunk. The shoe didn’t particularly bother him on its own, at least not in the short term. The boredom did become unbearable after a while, but he wasn’t at that stage. At most he was mildly irritated. He’d meant to call Connie, but that wouldn’t be happening. And being dropped here for something he hadn’t even done was pissing him off.

He had nothing to do but stir in his own annoyance. It was a relief when the door swung open, even if it didn’t bring freedom with it.

C.T propped himself up with one arm as Flowers stepped into the cell and shut the door behind him.

“Well.” C.T leaned back a little and gave Flowers a sardonic grin. “And what kind of emergency brings the mighty captain of the guard down here?”

“Emergency? Can’t an old friend arrive for a chat without suspicion being raised?” Flowers climbed onto the other end of the cot and settled there like a child at a sleepover. “You’ll be in here for a while longer. There’s a lot of urine tests to process, and we can’t let you out until we know what you’ve taken. Partially for your own safety.”

“Partially?”

“I think you know the other part of why.” Flowers smiled widely at him, rocking back and forth a little. “After all, you’re not silly enough to leave drugs around your cell. You may be running a trade in this prison, and I may know it, but you’re too clever to get caught. So this is an uncharacteristic slip-up indeed--”

C.T lashed out and kicked towards Flowers, his foot missing Flowers’ face by scant inches. He had no time to do anything else before Flowers threw himself forward, landing on C.T with his knee lodging straight into C.T’s stomach. He pressed his forearm against C.T’s throat, pinning him down for the moment.

“And that was just plain rude,” Flowers finished, smile still present.

“Yeah, well, you know what’s also rude? Planting drugs in my fucking cell, asshole.”

“How else were we supposed to catch up?”

“The last time this qualified as ‘just catching up’ was when I was in a prison that allowed conjugal visits,” C.T said dryly, squirming a little on the mattress. “You could have asked.”

“And you could have asked before flooding my prison with drugs. Now, I appreciate you finding a group activity you enjoy, but you can’t break the rules and then complain when I do the same.” Flowers pressed his forearm harder against C.T’s throat, blocking off his air for just a moment. “We call that hypocrisy, Hawke.”

“Is this how you treat all law-breakers inside ‘your’ walls, Butch?” C.T rasped with what little air he had.

“Well, you’re… special… to me.” Wider smile, colder eyes.

“I'll bet.”

C.T grabbed the arm that was pressing against his throat, gripping hard and forcing it back. Once he had enough leeway, he grabbed Flowers by the left arm and twisted it in a direction it wasn’t meant to go in. Flowers didn’t make much of a noise--just a little intake of breath--but C.T saw legitimate, panicked pain spasm across his features for a moment.

That moment was all C.T needed to roll them both over. It resulted in them tumbling off the mattress and onto the concrete below, but now C.T had Flowers pinned instead. Despite this, the panic had left Flowers’ face as quickly as it had appeared. Now his usual smile was plastered right back on his face.

“Also,” C.T said, continuing as if they hadn’t interrupted the conversation with a fight. “You’re one to talk about hypocrisy. If you were clean, we’d never have met.”

“True,” Flowers conceded. “But you’re in my prison now, old buddy, old pal. As much fun as we’re having right now… I’m giving you a warning. Stop your shenanigans. Or don’t. It’s all the same to me, but keep this up… and well, I’ll just have to give you a great, big bear hug and make you call me Daddy.”

“That so?” C.T grinned right back at him. “Well, what I’ve got going on… sure, let’s call those little shenanigans. I do consider this a game. Our game, if you will. But games have rules. You don’t play fair, and this stops being a game. And if it stops being a game--”

C.T leaned down so that his face was only inches from Flowers. He was close enough to tell that Flowers had switched shampoo brands.

“I will fuck you up,” C.T said. “I will end you. And this time it will stick.”

Flowers blinked, and the smile was gone for a second. The look he gave Pillman was one that he’d seen before. Almost blank, but with this icy, calculating look. It was a look that had never boded well for whoever it was directed at. Then it was gone, and Flowers was beaming at him again, all warm smiles and friendliness once more.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you give your very best effort,” he said, before attacking.

C.T had momentarily forgotten one very important thing. Flowers was not above kicking people in the crotch. He was reminded of this fact very forcibly, after which Flowers rolled out from underneath him.

“You always forget to guard the crotch, Hawke,” Flowers laughed.

“That’s a coward’s move,” C.T said hoarsely, curling up on the floor and trying to look as dignified as he could despite the rampant dick ache.

“No, it’s a pragmatic move.” Flowers leaned down and gave C.T’s cheek a quick, patronizing pat before heading out. The last words he said before leaving were, “You’ll have to do better than that!”

Some time after Flowers had left, C.T rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

“Why do you have to be so damn fun?” he muttered.

 

* * *

 

Well, shit.

No-one had alcohol. Much of it had been cleared out during the searches, and no-one was willing to trade Grif enough fruit to make more. Well, except Matthews. That kissass was all-too-willing to please. But that wasn’t enough. And now that the buzz from seeing Sister had worn off, the post-visit gloom from having to wait the longest possible time until another visit was setting in.

Furthermore, Donut would not shut up.

“You wanna play with one of those soccer balls? We could borrow from… y’know that guy that’s like a human sigh? Coal? Pebble? Flint? It might be spelt with a ‘y,’ I hadn’t asked.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“What about we steal Tucker’s porn magazines and see how long it takes him to notice?”

“Not interested.”

“Uh, well… we could find Felix and get him to give you a tattoo? I bet he could do some more comic book stuff on you, he’s really good. Check out this horse with a sword on its head.”

“First of all, that’s a unicorn. Second, can you just shut up for a while?” Grif snapped. He felt a tinge of regret almost immediately. He didn’t really want to yell at Donut, he was basically the only person Grif had left within these walls. It’s just that Donut had an amazing knack for grating on his nerves when they were already frayed.

Donut’s only response was to stick his tongue out. Grif rolled his eyes, and returned to staring out over the yard.

Something hit him in the ear. Grif raised a hand to touch the side of his head before looking down at the rubber band lying in the dirt. They weren’t meant to have rubber bands and it was a damn useful type of contraband, so he quickly scooped it up. As he did so, another hit him in the forehead.

The source of the rubber bands was Birdie, who was sitting nearby. He had his fingers posed in the shape of a gun, and was slinging the rubber bands over them and flicking them as if they were bullets. His aim was stunning. Grif glared at him and Birdie responded by playfully flicking one at Grif’s shoes.

Grif watched Birdie for a moment, then turned back to Donut.

“I gotta talk to a guy, so fuck off for a bit.”

“Is this your way of stopping me nagging at you about the alcohol thing?” Donut asked, pulling a face at Grif.

“I swear on my mother’s illustrious career as a fat, bearded lady that I will not be buying alcohol. Now piss off.”

“Fineee.” Under his breath Donut muttered, “See if I share my candy cigarettes with you, jerk.”

Grif waited until Donut was gone before approaching Birdie and sitting down next to him without a word. Birdie didn’t open the conversation either, instead dedicating his attention to flicking rubber bands at Demo as he passed by.

It took Grif two full minutes to break the silence.

“So, in theory, if I were interested in the shit you sell… what’s cheapest and going to knock out as much time as possible?”

 

* * *

 

"Were you supposed to take them home?"

York shrugged from his place on the floor. C.C was lying on his lap, and he was scratching her behind the ears. "Where else do we put them? We don’t even have a kennel."

Wash was holding a white towel and trying to entice Freckles into a game of tug-of-war, like the instructions that Doyle had given him told him to. Freckles was ignoring him. "You're not a professional dog trainer, York."

"They gotta sleep somewhere."

"Also, you're meant to be patrolling, not raising dogs."

"Yeah, that's kind of an issue. We need an actual dog trainer or dog caretaker or something, but Doyle says that there’s no budget for it. I still don’t even know where he got these dogs. Anyway, Ohio offered to look after them for a bit for me, but… well, you know the triplets.”

“Yeah…” Wash waved the towel at Freckles before giving up and sitting down near York. C.C raised her head and stared suspiciously at him for a moment, before relaxing again. "Also, next time Caboose asks where Freckles is, I'm sending him after you."

"Freckles is your dog."

"Freckles is not my dog."

"Then just hand him over to Caboose." The moment York said this, Freckles' ears perked up.

Wash gave York a stare that suggested a belief that York's brain had been switched with that of a half-witted slug. "Hand the police dog to an inmate. Not just any inmate, but Caboose. None-too-bright, known-for-murdering-pigeons-and-keeping-the-corpses Caboose."

"Oh, he hasn't done the pigeon thing in like a decade and a half. I'm not saying he keeps him. But hey, what's the harm in distracting him by letting him play a bit of tug-o-war with Freckles? I’m not saying we let him have full run of the prison with him."

"No," Wash said firmly.

Freckles' response to this was to nip at Wash's hand angrily. While it was nowhere near the amount of damage Freckles could do to someone, it was enough to break the skin.

"Hey! I thought you were trained," Wash snapped.

Freckles barked at him, flattening his ears and sticking out his tail.

"Oh, come on. You met him once."

Another bark.

"Will you obey the rules if I let you play with Caboose sometimes?" Wash sighed. Freckles immediately sat down, tail wagging. "...I am so going to regret this. No more biting! Unless it's an inmate, then I don't care." Wash looked down at his finger, which was bleeding slightly, and added, "There's no way they have rabies, right?"

York shrugged. "You'll know in a few days, right?"

"That's helpful."

 

* * *

 

Grif was sure that he’d been fucking played.

Fucking Birdie. ‘Oh, I don’t have anything that speeds up time because the guards took it, but you can have these one-ups. Yes, I know the Mario one-ups were a different colour. Just take the fucking meth-meth shrooms, would you?’ Jackass.

Honestly, anything that was like crystal meth on crystal meth seemed the direct opposite of what Grif had been going for. If he was sped up, wouldn’t that make time feel even slower? But honestly, he had no other ideas and figured that even if time didn’t go faster, it would at least be more interesting.

Plus, the price was right. Birdie had offered the first dose cheap when Grif had been hesitant about it. That was the sort of shit that Grif remembered old high school tapes about peer pressure and drugs warning him about. But it wasn’t like he had a whole lot of money here.

Grif scowled, staring at the ceiling as he sprawled across his bunk. The only effect thus far was that his mouth had an awful taste in it. It felt like he’d licked the side of an algae-stained hot tub.

It wasn't his first time muddling around with drugs. Really, you couldn't live with Sister and never encounter them. But it had been a very occasional thing. Apart from the weed, anyway. There had always been time for that. Simmons had never liked it, though. Said it smelt funny and that he was worried about S.W.A.T teams swarming the apartment. Calling the kettle black, considering his hacking activities. Dumbass.

The taste in his mouth was worse, and was now accompanied by a dry, sandy feeling. Grif rolled off his bunk and tottered over to the sink. He turned it on, collected some water in his cupped hands and drank, but it didn't help much. If anything, his mouth felt drier.

He flopped onto the bed, but then got up quickly again. After a few moments, he started bouncing on his feet, seized by a need to move. That certainly wasn’t normal. Grif would normally go to extreme lengths to avoid doing anything, but right now moving felt good. If only the prison had a gym. But it didn’t, so Grif just started doing leg stretches.

Jesus. If anyone had ever told him that he’d willingly do stretches when there was a bed right there… Simmons would probably have a heart attack and die all over again if he could see him now.

“You’re not kidding. What the fuck, fatass?”

Grif stuck a finger in his ear and tried to dig the wax out of it, before continuing to do his stretches. Once he got bored of that he started doing squats, though they were much slower than the stretches had been. Lot of weight to pull. When he got bored of that, he flopped back onto the bed again. Within moments, he was doing sit-ups on the bed. He was feeling a little sweaty, but it didn’t feel like the sweat of exercise.

Okay, yeah. Forget trashing Birdie, because those one-ups were definitely doing something. Occasionally, someone would pass by the cell. They didn’t stop but they seemed… slower. Now that he looked properly at his surroundings, they all seemed a little purple. And the floor was taking on a weird translucent quality. Like jello. Grif stuck his feet over the edge of the bed and stomped, one-two, and it seemed to send out ripples. Fuck, he wasn’t standing on the floor if it was gonna be like that.

“Since when do you move willingly? Hey. Hey, don’t ignore me.”

Grif dug his finger back into his ear again. Was that the hallucinations? Did people hear hallucinations? Grif had always thought hallucinations were purely sight-based. And… he didn’t want to hear that.

No, wait, he did. He wanted to hear that voice more than anything, but not like this.

"Oh, for the love of… hey! Fatass! Grif!”

"You're not there," Grif said to the ceiling, not looking to the corner of the cell where the voice was coming from. "You're dead."

"That's no reason to be rude, asshole."

"You're an asshole."

“No, you’re an asshole.”

“No, you--fuck, I’m not doing this with my imagination! Fuck off!” Grif bellowed, picking up his deflated pillow and throwing it in the direction of the voice without looking.

“Jesus. Nice to see you, too.”

Grif had the distinct impression that not-Simmons was getting a lot closer. He shut his eyes, but that feeling didn’t go away. So he caved. He looked at the corner that, previously, had only been home to a pile of dirty laundry.

“And of course there’s dirty clothes on the floor,” Simmons grumbled. “Were you ever going to pick this up?”

“Eventually.”

“Oh, you were not.”

Grif flipped not-Simmons off, and got the same gesture right back. But Simmons’ finger looked oddly melty. Actually, he looked pretty melty as a whole. Grif couldn’t make out his freckles or his finer features. The only part of his face that hadn’t blurred with the rest was his eyes, and even then they were just two blotches of colour on a bigger blotch. It was like looking at Simmons through frosted glass.

“Look… can you just… go?” Grif asked the hallucination. “I don’t want to deal with this, alright?”

“You think I want to be here? Seriously, all the world and I pick your fucking dirty cell? I didn’t even like being in your room back in the apartment,” Simmons complained. “It smelt like stale cookies.”

“I can’t believe you came back from the dead to bitch at me.”

“And if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have to come back from the dead to do that.” Simmons was basically inches from Grif’s face now, although Grif hadn’t seen him move. Leaning over Grif, back bent a little more than what was natural to do so. “Least you could do is pay attention. The commute from Hell isn’t great.”

Grif hesitated for a moment, then stretched his fingers up to touch Simmons’ face. But when his fingers skimmed where the skin could be, they felt nothing.

“Ew, get your fingers out of my face. I don’t know where your hands have been, and the odds are it was somewhere fucking horrible,” Simmons snapped, waving his hands at Grif and trying to brush his hand away. In response, Grif attempted to flick his nose. “Jesus, why?”

"Not gonna leave, are you?" Grif said quietly. “Prick.”

"I can't leave, you literally have your fingers up my nose!"

Grif pulled his hand away before shutting his eyes. Even with his eyes shut, he still saw Simmons. As if he needed confirmation that having Simmons back was too good to be real. And he'd totally embrace this weird shit, except that he knew that once the high wore off…

"I took this shit to pass the time. Not to... not..." Grif shook his head. "Not this."

"You shouldn't have been taking it anyway!"

"What are you, my mother?"

“Do I look that heavy or beardy? Santa Claus would pass better as your mother.”

“Not cool, fake. Not cool.” Grif returned to doing sit-ups, arms behind his head. “...Fuck. Fuck, okay, well… if you’re not gonna piss off, then fuck it. Stay all you want. But…” Grif’s eyes flickered to Simmons, then he looked away again. “Nevermind.”

“Ugh, don’t be bashful. I’ll tell you when I’m leaving, alright?”

“Go figure that you know what’s going on up there,” Grif grumbled. “So, what’s the afterlife like? You said Hell, right?”

“We did murder a guy,” Simmons pointed out.

“But that guy was a dick!”

“And it sucks. It’s way too hot down there, I keep getting sunburn. Also, why’d you have to send the Zealot in right after me? Guy’s annoying as fuck.”

 

* * *

 

When Wash entered the infirmary, he only saw Sheila and one sleeping inmate.

“Do you have any band-aids?”

Sheila stood up the moment he entered. “Oh, good, you’re here. Stay here and watch Denzel while I get my lunch. If he wakes up he might try and wander off,” she said hurriedly.

She quickly left the room, but returned before the door had even swung shut behind him.

“Band-aids are in the cabinet to your left,” she said before letting the door swing shut again.

Wash sighed before heading for that cabinet. Getting stuck with babysitting duty was not what he’d had in mind, but he supposed he couldn’t blame Sheila. With only one doctor, it meant she had to take her lunch breaks when she could get them. Wash opened the cabinet and wrinkled his nose at the band-aids, which had cartoon dinosaurs all over them. Figures.

As Wash unwrapped a band-aid to cover where Freckles had bit him, he heard someone move behind him. He turned around to see Denzel sitting up, though he wavered as if he was about to lose his balance. He looked around for a moment, blinking, and when he breathed it sounded like wind through a rain-soaked tunnel. Then he looked at Wash.

“I need to speak to the ruler of the establishment,” he said, his voice distorted by what was probably mucus.

Alarm bells went off in Wash’s head.

“The ruler?” he asked slowly.

“The… the ruler. The president, but only of this building.” Denzel blinked at him. “It is… it is of vital importance. They may have the will.”

“Niner?”

“Are they the king?”

Wash was having trouble breathing.

“Y-yeah, I guess. She’s the warden.”

“...Warden. Yes, that is the word.” Denzel paused for a moment before saying, “I need to talk to her.”

“You can’t leave. And even if I wanted to be your messenger, I’m not allowed to leave you unsupervised.”

“Will that take a substitutable… substitute… substar… a long amount of time?”

“Maybe. Sheila went to… she went to get lunch.”

Denzel tilted his head, wobbling a little before righting himself at the last minute. “Are you a nurse? I would like to lodge a complaint about how understaffed the infirmary is and how scarce you have been.”

Wash didn’t answer, his breathing still coming out wrong and a burning sensation gathering in his chest.

“I understand that prisoners do not warrant the best medical aid,” Delta said. “But you owe Doctor Filss a certain level of courtesy--”

 

_“--is owed to house guests, so I will ask one more time before I have Omega rip out the rest of your teeth. State. Your. Name.”_

_“...Wash.”_

_“Was that your name? Or are you requesting a shower? Your full name, please.”_

 

Wash’s mouth hurt. He was suddenly aware of how fake the teeth in one side of his mouth felt.

 

_“Do you truly consider this torture better than death? Or do you think that someone will come and find you?”_

 

A series of coughs, though drier and caused by damage rather than disease, echoed in Wash’s memory, and he snapped back to the present in time to see Denzel doubling over, coughing into his hand with wetter, less strained coughs. No. Not Denzel.

Wash pressed his fingers to the side of his face, feeling the hardness of his fake teeth, before lowering them and staring at the figure that he hadn’t seen in a long time. That he’d last seen younger, and only a blur as a car hurtled towards him, only a silhouette in his fading vision as Carolina was gunned down.

“...Delta?”

Delta blinked. “Hello,” he said slowly. Eyes glazed with fever, not a spark of recognition in them. Was it the delirium that caused that? Or did Wash not matter in the grand scheme of things? Was the three months of torture just another job to Delta?

Wash wanted to do so many conflicting things at once. He wanted to run. He wanted to beat Delta’s pneumonia-ridden face in. He wanted to rewind time to before he’d enter the infirmary, because he thought he was over this, he thought Doc had helped, he thought he didn’t have to chase after Carolina’s killer, after the people who did this to him, and all the hate was bubbling back up but so was fear, he couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t, but Delta was right there and Wash could kill him right now before Sheila came back--

Wash ran.

He couldn’t breathe, but he ran. Didn’t even remember to lock the door. There was only one concrete thought in his mind. He couldn’t deal with this alone again. Not after fifteen years of keeping it to himself and having it eat away at him.

He needed to tell Doc.

 

* * *

 

Grif hadn’t turned up for lunch.

This had often been a red flag in the past. If Grif didn’t turn up for lunch, Donut would often find him in a bad state. But it wasn’t winter. It wasn’t near the anniversary of the riot. Not to mention Grif had been fine earlier in the day. Grumpy, sure. But Grif was always a little grumpy.

Honestly, it was almost more worrying when Donut headed for Grif’s cell and heard chatter at a million miles a minute.

“--and obviously the third movie is the worst, like what is he even thinking? Yeah, I know that’s your favourite, but your taste is awful. You’d like him, I think. He’s also a giant nerd who looks up shit on the internet that isn’t porn. Again, who does that? That’s what the internet is for!”

“Grif, you’re gonna miss lunch!” Donut called out before rounding the corner. “...What the hell?”

Something was immediately off. Partially because Grif was standing on his bed, boxing the air and bouncing on his feet, with the bunk making an ominous squeak every time he did so. And partially because, despite the rampant conversation, Grif was the only person in the cell.

“Hey, Donut! Donut!” Grif turned towards him, and Donut caught sight of dilated pupils and a flushed face. “Did you know that Hell has its own restaurant chain? It’s like a grill chain? It’s called Satan’s Steaks. I think it should be called The Grillenium Falcon. God, I haven’t had steak in forever, have you? You think Church would smuggle that in for me? I’d suck like five dicks for a good steak. Or a bad steak, even.”

Grif said this all in one breath, and his attention moved away from Donut. Grif was staring at thin air, but he was more focused on it than he’d been on anything for a while. It was obvious that Grif was higher than an oxygen-huffing clown joining the mile high club.

“Don’t look at me like that, kissass, you just don’t understand because you’re an out-of-practice vegan. Look, it’s not like I’m gonna suck Church’s dick for a steak, Tucker would never allow it. Oh, they’re banging now, so you owe me ten bucks. Also I’m basically a widower so I can do what I want.”

Donut covered his face for a moment, leaning against the cell bars. “Jesus Christ.” After a few deep breaths he uncovered his face and took a step into the cell. “Grif, what did you take--”

“Don’t step on the floor!” Grif bellowed.

“...Why? What’s wrong with the floor? You spill your pruno again?”

“The floor’s jello! You’ll sink!” Grif sat down on his bunk and poked the concrete floor with one foot. “You step on the jello, you’ll sink. You’ll fall and vanish and I’ll be the only non-ghost Red left except for Lopez and he can’t speak English so he doesn’t really count as company.”

Donut stared at Grif, then at the floor. He tapped it with his foot. Solid. Not that Donut expected it to be anything else. Donut narrowed his eyes and took a step forward.

“Donut, no!” Grif, now looking on the verge of panic, shoved an arm out to try and stop him. “Don’t do it! You have so much to live for!”

Donut took a couple more steps, ignoring the terrified look on Grif’s face. “There. See? I’m fine.”

“Holy shit.” Grif stared at him, the terror melting away. “You’re like… Prison Jesus. Or I’m even higher than I thought I was.”

“Grif, what did you take?” Donut asked, voice stern.

“You can’t prove nothing!”

“You literally just told me you were high.”

“That won’t hold up in court,” Grif insisted.

Donut walked over to Grif’s footlocker, opened it and immediately spotted a crumpled, empty baggie. He picked it up and held it out to Grif, eyebrow raised.

“Okay, you got me there. But that’s not my fault. Prison needs better hiding places. Like how Simmons was always--you remember, you were always trying to hide your books because Caboose kept borrowing them and spilling food on them, and--”

Grif trailed off, his attention going back to thin air. But a frown appeared on his face. He got up to stand on the bunk again, turning around and staring down every inch of the cell, before letting out a pissed groan.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, suddenly gloomy. “He said he’d tell me when he left.”

“Grif, you fucking--” Donut stopped himself mid-sentence and covered his face with one hand, just barely managing to hold back a lecture on the dangers of drugs. Normally he'd jump into that lecture right away, but he didn't want to attract attention. He took a few deep breaths. “...Okay. Okay. Grif, how are you feeling right now?”

“...Thirsty?” Grif said.

“Okay. Look. Stay here. I’ll get some juice from the cafeteria--for drinking, not making pruno! But you have to stay right here. Stay on the bunk. Don’t even talk to anyone if you can help it, okay?”

“Because I’m high as fuck?”

“Exactly.”

“Right, right, I can do that. I can be quiet. No-one’s ever been more quiet than me, I’m the Silence Master,” Grif muttered under his breath, shaking his arms out and fidgeting. “I’ll fucking show them. I’ll show him, he’ll see how quiet I can be.”

Once Donut was out of view he slumped, for just a moment, against the wall. He covered his face and took a few long breaths.

"Why do you have to be so dumb?" he said under his breath, before breaking out into as fast a jog as he could manage without attracting undue attention.

 

* * *

 

“I need to talk to you.”

“...Wash, did you break into my office?”

The next day, Doc unlocked the door to his cramped but cozy office and entered, only to find Wash on the sofa, clearly waiting for him. Rocking slightly and drumming his fingers on lumpy cushions. Wash had never been in the office before him, and had mostly only turned up to hang out during his lunch break for the last few years.

“I broke in yesterday, but you weren’t here,” Wash mumbled.

“I had a day off.”

Normally this would have been followed by Wash grumbling about how Doc got more time off than him, as well as other benefits, and how it didn't make sense since Doc's job was a made-up job that Wash had invented himself. This time, Wash only drummed his fingers against the cushions harder. His facial expression looked like he was about to either punch something or throw up.

“You could have called me,” Doc continued, taking a seat on his usual chair. “What’s up?”

“It’s… it’s Delta.”

Doc immediately felt his stomach clench. After Wash had spilled all that stuff about his past, and worked a bit at getting over it, he'd just stopped talking about it. Never brought up Delta or Omega or Alpha or any of the rest up again. Not in a ‘secrets’ sense, but simply because once it was off his chest he hadn’t needed to. Talking about it again… that meant something had changed.

“What about him?”

“He’s here.”

“What do you mean he’s--”

Doc was not ready for the explosion of words.

“I mean he’s here, Doc! He’s sitting in that infirmary, half-delirious from pneumonia! He’s… he’s just right there, and I… shit, I… he’s there, Doc! Denzel is Delta! Oh god, how did I not see it?! I saw him! He ran me over with a car, and he killed Carolina, and that’s the last thing I saw before the basement! How did I not recognize him until he spoke?! It’s not even a dissimilar name!” Wash twisted his fingers in his hair, rocking back and forth. His voice was cracking and much higher than normal.

"Wash! Calm down, okay?" Doc clambered off his seat and sat down next to Wash on the sofa instead. He reached out to carefully pat Wash on the shoulder, but his hand froze before he did. Sometimes Wash wasn’t receptive to touch. Doc could understand that feeling all too well. “Are you okay with me--”

“Yeah. Yeah, I… yeah. It’s fine,” Wash said shakily. Doc pat him once, watching for signs of discomfort, before gently rubbing his back.

“You need to slow down. Just… breathe. Okay?”

Wash covered his face. "He's not supposed to be here," he mumbled into his hands. He didn't say anything else for a few minutes. Doc just kept rubbing his back, and eventually broke the silence.

"Okay, so... once you're ready... explain slower. And I'll... I'll help how I can. Okay?" Doc said slowly. Wash uncovered his face, but didn’t manage to look at Doc. He was very slightly leaning into the back rub, but otherwise seemed lost in his own head.

"Alright... alright, so..." Wash finally started. "It's just... dumb luck that I found out, really. Freckles bit me. I needed a band-aid. Sheila needed lunch, so she gave me the job of watching the infirmary. Delta, he was… just kind of out of it? Kept requesting to see the prison king or something. And his voice… I remembered that voice. I… I gave away his codename right there, but he didn’t recognise me, he just acted like it was nothing! Then I ran. Came down here to tell you. You weren’t here so I just kind of waited.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed a little. “You waited here for a full day?”

“Well. I did go home, but I couldn’t sleep so I just came back.”

“Wash, seriously. Call me next time.” When Wash made a face at him, Doc huffed and said, “Look, it’s fine. I don’t have your number just for cat pictures, you know.”

“It didn’t feel like something I should text out,” Wash said. He scraped his foot against the slightly ragged carpet. “What I’m really stuck on, though… is what do I do?”

“What do you--”

“I had plans, you know.” Wash gestured at the wall. “You saw my map, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, I’ll admit that was a little weird,” Doc said. By the time Wash had let Doc into his apartment, the board of maps, newspaper articles and red string had been taken down. But not disposed of. It had been incredibly elaborate.

“All these plans to make them pay. All of them, preferably all at once in case I got caught.” Wash scratched the back of his neck, frowning. “Delta. O’Malley. The other still-living assholes that worked with them. Not to mention South. But Delta especially… eye for an eye.”

“Killing Delta won’t bring Carolina back, Wash,” Doc said.

“I know. And I know it’s likely to cause more problems than it would solve. But… but what else am I meant to do?”

“Turn him in?”

“How do I explain why I know? How am I meant to find proof?” Wash sighed and added, “I got lucky when I freaked out on O’Malley. If he hadn’t had bodies in his basement, I would have just been a nutjob with baseless accusations. But if Delta’s here, then his house has already been checked. And even if I out him… Delta could out me right back. He was always known for being an information source. And… and with all this…”

Wash put his face back in his hands. His next words were muffled.

“What do I say to York? How do I explain to him that I know who killed Carolina? That I’ve always known who and how? That I was there?”

If the silences beforehand had been long, this one seemed to go for an age. At least for Doc. Because Wash lifted his head out of his hands and looked at Doc, like he would somehow have an answer.

And all Doc could say was, "I don't know, Wash. That’s… that’s a doozy. Some things are just doozies."

“One big fucking doozy,” Wash muttered.

 

* * *

 

O’Malley hadn’t visited Doc in a little while. Not properly. He supposed he had been distracted, what with Delta’s sudden presence in the prison. But given that Delta was now ill, and thus difficult to reach (at least, difficult to reach while still having the freedom to torment him) O’Malley was left with free time. He normally didn’t visit so early, but he was in the mood. He wouldn’t want Doc to get comfortable, anyway.

Today felt like a good day. And the sight of the vibrant purple that Doc had painted his door--he thought it would cheer people up--made O’Malley grin even wider. That was the purple he associated with Doc. A purple associated with little squeaks, soft feelings and a timid manner that was so fun to push.

Then O’Malley shoved open the door, and his mood immediately changed.

Doc was not alone. That in itself was not such a problem. O’Malley didn’t like sharing, but Doc did have his work. But he was with Washington.

They were not sitting as patient and therapist should, with Doc on his chair and the patient on the sofa. No. They were both on the sofa--the same sofa that O’Malley had often pinned Doc to in the past. Wash was leaning forward and had his face in his hands. An unusually vulnerable pose for him, to cover his face and not be keeping everything within his sight. Doc was talking to Wash, and his tone was comforting. Hushed. Not unusual, where his patients were concerned. But Doc also had his hand on Wash. He was slowly rubbing Wash’s back in a soothing manner. Doc rarely touched anyone. O’Malley had worked hard at imprinting the association between him and physical contact into Doc’s mind.

Doc looked up when he heard the door open. He saw O’Malley. Normally, O’Malley would have grinned at how fast the colour drained out of his face. But O’Malley was just as white. Not out of fear. Out of barely suppressed rage.

A couple of silent moments passed before O’Malley took a step back.

“You’re busy,” he said flatly.

Wash had looked up as well by now. He lowered his hands and immediately climbed to his feet. He didn’t say anything. His mouth only twisting at the sight of O’Malley, though this was followed by him looking away. Ashamed, perhaps, at being caught in a moment that could only be described as intimate. Then he looked back, usual chilly expression fixed back onto his face. Rebuilding the Washington that most of the prison saw. The Wash that many considered ‘a cold motherfucker.’ But O’Malley had seen that Wash collapse before--when spying on Epsilon talking to Wash during the basement--and now it seemed Doc had, too.

“Don’t you have something you should be doing?” Wash asked. His voice was not quite back to its usual ‘will murder you if it would overcome a mild inconvenience’ tone. A little twitchy, lilting in slightly wrong places.

“I’m emotionally distraught and using the facilities supplied for such things. Don’t you have a job to be doing? Or is Doc’s office the area you patrol now?” O’Malley kept his voice light. Monotone.

Wash’s eyes narrowed. He was fiddling with his belt, hand inching towards where he kept his pepper spray. Before anything else could happen, Doc stepped between the two of them.

“It’s alright! He… he does have the right to… he… this is my job, it’s alright,” Doc said to Wash. He cast a glance at O’Malley, then looked away quickly. “We can… I’ll be free during my lunch break, I--uh, I mean…” He looked between Wash and O’Malley, waving his arms vaguely. “For, uh… this… not-important… thing. I mean, it’s… important but… aaaah?”

Wash looked at Doc, eyebrows raised in confusion. Doc did a weird little eye-twitch and grimace which could have either meant ‘don’t ask, just later’ or ‘I’m having a seizure.’ After a few moments of brief expressions and possible telepathy, Wash left. Although it’d be more accurate to say that Doc lightly pushed him out of the room.

Doc closed the door, waited a moment, then turned to O’Malley with an air of resignation on his face. He put a smile on his face. It was strained.

“So, uh… what did you want to talk about? Please, uh… take a seat.” Doc sat down again, this time using his usual chair. “I do have to run an art therapy session soon, but… there’s… time…”

O’Malley said nothing for a while, nor did he move to sit down. He just stared at Doc. Doc stared back, then averted his gaze.

The way that Doc was avoiding his stare, how he’d quickly shuffled Wash away… Doc knew he’d done something wrong. A mistake could be forgiven with some… light punishment. But Doc knew.

“I suddenly don’t feel emotionally distraught,” O’Malley said. “I will leave you to… whatever you do around here. Tests and Wikipedia research, I assume.”

“Uh, what? But you just… just… are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

O’Malley turned around and left. He caught a glimpse of Doc’s face before he did. Doc looked petrified. And he had good reason to be.

Delta wasn’t going anywhere. He could wait. O’Malley had to deal with this first.

 

* * *

 

To be honest, Church did not know what the fuck Kimball aimed to accomplish by shoving a bunch of them into an art class. He hadn’t wanted to bother. He didn’t think he was going to get anything out of spreading art on a canvas like a child.

Tucker, however, had decided to go for the class. When pointed out that he wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing, Tucker had just shrugged and went, “Hey, the parole board will like any extras I get on there. Who cares?”

Church was mostly ignoring his own painting, instead opting to assist Tucker.

“I need teal,” Tucker said. He held his paint-splattered hand over a little tray of paints. They were finger-painting, as Kimball had recently banned paint brushes from the classroom.

“That’s green. Move your hand left. No, your other left,” Church said. Tucker moved his hand slowly, hovering inches over the paint. “Stop. Yeah, you’re above it.”

“Sweet.” Tucker stuck his fingers in the teal paint, scooping up a generous amount on his fingers before going to town on a painting that was absolutely incoherent.

Church went back to staring at his own paints. He didn’t like the shades of orange, purple and blue in his tray. He could practically see Sigma, Theta and Epsilon splattering paint on the wall. He reached into his tray and started mixing the colours together until they became the grey muck that all colours became when they got too mixed.

“Church, I don’t want to stifle your creativity here. But it’d be great if you didn’t waste paint,” Kimball said, appearing behind them and peering down into Church’s tray. “Paints are expensive, you know.”

“This whole thing is a waste.”

“If it goes on paper it’s not a waste.”

“Lighten up, Church! It’s like being back in elementary school! I hope nap time gets brought back next,” Tucker said, grinning, as he continued to smear paint. He made a few more strokes with his hands before raising them in the air. “Done!”

Kimball turned her attention to the art. “...The blending is surprisingly decent, actually.”

“Blindist,” Tucker said.

“What’s it supposed to be?”

Tucker gestured at the blob in the middle, where he’d used a majority of the teal. “That’s my kid. I dunno, I figured… you know, he drew a lot of pictures of me when he was younger, soooo… about time I returned the favour, you know?”

“How old’s your son now?” Kimball pulled a chair over to them and sat down.

“Twenty-one.”

“Tell me about him.”

Tucker immediately went off in a spiel about the stuff that Junior had been doing lately, centering largely around basketball and how he didn’t need too much of ‘that nerd stuff’ to get a good college scholarship. Church, not being needed to select paint colours, let his attention drift off to a dispute between Sharkface and Felix, who were arguing over Sharkface hogging the red paint.

“--and now I can swear around him without getting in trouble,” Tucker finished. “No more of Crunchbite giving me looks because I said ‘shisno’ in front of him.”

“That’s the word that means ‘the feces of the feces of the smelliest animal on Earth,’ right?” Before Kimball could get an answer, her attention moved past Tucker and she sighed. “Hold that thought.”

She stood up and headed towards the Sharkface and Felix’s argument. Tucker waited until her footsteps had moved away, and until she started telling the two of them to settle down and that arguments spiralling out of control was what led to paint brushes being banned from the class in the first place. Once she wasn’t listening, he turned to Church with a grin.

“So, I’m thinking she’s a solid second-place,” he said.

“...What.”

“Well, I’ve heard the ‘who is the hottest staff member’ argument like three times in the last day. First I heard it between Manly and Birdie, then Palomo wouldn’t shut up--”

From elsewhere in the room, Palomo’s voice piped up. “I still stick by Jensen!”

“No-one cares, Palomo!” Tucker yelled back before continuing. “I don’t know where it started, but like… I got to thinking. I can’t just pick one and be done with it, I need to consider this shit carefully.”

Church gave Tucker a bemused look. “Tucker… you’ve never even seen Kimball.”

“Haven’t seen Niner or Sherry before, either, but they’re still up there in my rankings. It’s all about imagination, dude.” Tucker tapped the side of his head, grimacing slightly as he left teal streaks behind. “I can imagine whatever I want up here, and it is gooooood. Anyway, Kimball’s pretty cool so I might vote #1 for her. Even if Sherry looks a little more fun in my mind. She has that kind of voice, y’know? I feel like she’s a partier.”

Church rolled his eyes. “That is the dumbest argument.”

“You’re just saying that because everyone knows you’ll just vote for Tex.”

“Says who?”

“Says the fact that she’d kick you in the dick if you didn’t.”

“...True.” Church returned to pushing the paints on his tray around.

“Maybe when you go visit Dee you can ask him. He seems like the sort of dude who’d give a boring but logic-based answer that would carry a lot of weight, just because he doesn’t have the personality to add personal reasons.”

Church paused, fingers stuck in the tray still. “...Visit him? Where the fuck is he?”

“Uh, infirmary? Where else?”

Church put down the tray, looking confused. “Are you fucking with me?”

Tucker tilted his head a little, looking equally confused. “Dude. You told me about it. It’d be some dumb fuckery to tell you something you told me.”

“I don’t… I… when did this happen?” Church stared into his tray, reaching out to rub a bit of green paint into the mess of brown. “Is he…?”

“When the cells were searched. It was two days ago, Church. York found him delirious with pneumonia and took him up there. You told me yesterday.”

“Pneumonia. Right, that’s… well, guess that could be worse. I thought O’Malley might have stabbed him or something,” Church said. He barely reacted as a paint tray narrowly missed his head, having been tossed at Sharkface by Felix during the argument.

Tucker frowned, fiddling with his own tray. “You really don’t remember this?”

“...I, uh… I dunno.” This rang absolutely no bells.

“...Weird. You’re getting super old, Church.”

“Maybe. Maybe...”

 

* * *

 

A couple of rooms away, Caboose smeared paint on his own sheet of paper with the sort of energy that most would require coffee in the double digits to gain. Donut was just as enthusiastic, but a lot more delicate in his strokes.

Donut was a little jealous, because the form in Caboose’s pictures was surprisingly on-point. He had no sense of colour co-ordination, but the things he painted always looked like what they were meant to look like. Once he explained them, anyway.

Although there was one part about this painting that was bothering Donut.

“Why didn’t the mad scientist just make the first guy a cyborg, instead of taking parts out of his assistant and making them the cyborg?” Donut asked, pointing at the figure in Caboose’s painting that looked like a meatpuzzle.

“All good science experiments need at least two people to have things glued to them,” Caboose said seriously.

“...Fair enough.”

Next to them, Grif was sleeping and using his own piece of paper as a pillow. He'd crashed hard after taking those one-ups and had been half-comatose all morning. Grif hadn't wanted to join the art therapy session at all, but Donut was determined not to leave Grif alone right now. He'd got Grif there partially with nagging and partially with a food-based bribe.

“Doc! Doc! Doc! I made a thing!” Caboose bellowed happily across the room, flailing his arm in the air. The sudden volume was enough to make Matthews flinch and knock over his tray of paints. Bitters pushed his own tray closer to Matthews without saying a word, too absorbed in his own work.

Doc didn’t stir for a moment. He normally moved around the room and tried to talk to people, with varying degrees of success. However, this session he’d sat in the corner, resting his chin on his hand, and had spent it staring off into space with a worried, thoughtful expression. It took several moments of Caboose’s yelling and flailing to shake him out of that stupor.

“Oh… yes, Caboose?”

“I made a thing!”

Doc wandered over to have a look. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s… it’s nice…” He seemed to be staring through it rather than at it.

“It has robots!”

There was a knock on the door before it swung open. York walked in, glancing around the room quickly before making a beeline for Doc and Caboose.

“Hey, Doc. Need to borrow Caboose for a moment, if that’s cool?” York asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

York bent down slightly to look at what Caboose was painting. “Sweet meatpuzzle.”

“Thank you. I am very proud,” Caboose said seriously.

“Come on, let’s have a talk.”

“Okay!” Caboose got up, beaming at Donut. “Be back soon, Castella!” In his haste to leave the room, Caboose knocked over a tray of paint belonging to Locus. “Sorry, Grasshopper!”

Locus didn’t respond except with a slight eye twitch as he lifted his tray of paint from where it had landed face-down in his lap. York moved to follow Caboose, but stopped and turned to Doc.

“Coming out tonight?”

“Um…” Doc scratched the back of his head, still looking distracted. After a moment he managed a smile. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Cool.” York exited the room with copious finger-gunning at Doc. Doc raised his hands like he was about to return the gesture, then remembered that mimicking weaponry for the sake of a farewell wasn’t his style and made two thumbs up instead.

Donut’s attention drifted over to Locus, who was now trying to wipe paint off both his jacket and pants. After a moment of considering how likely Locus was to attack him on approach--given the presence of Doc, not likely, but Locus just had an unsettling vibe--Donut got up and moved to sit near Locus, turning the chair around and sitting on it backwards to try and perform an air of devil-may-care.

“You shouldn’t rub the stains. That’ll just make them bigger,” Donut told him.

Locus paused before raising his eyes to focus on Donut. Donut stared right back and pretended that he wasn’t nervous. He’d stared down inmates before. He’d found that, with newer inmates, it was easier to convince them he shouldn’t be messed with if he won that first staring contest. Of course, none of those inmates were Locus. When Locus didn’t say anything, Donut continued.

“Listen, I know we haven’t really spoken before? Hi, I’m Donut. It’s nice to meet you!” Donut reached out a hand to shake, but Locus just stared at it doubtfully. Donut eventually withdrew it. “Anyway, I wash clothes. That’s kind of my thing. I could get the paint stains out of those clothes. And since you’d be a first-time customer I’ll do it on the cheap.”

Locus still said nothing, although the intensity of his stare had lessened slightly. He now seemed to be studying Donut. Eyes flickering from Donut’s face to the ragged flaps where his ear had once been, to the scars on his arms from one of O’Malley’s attacks and a thin, fainter scar dangerously close to the throat from a different attack. Locus’ eyes also lingered on the sword-horse tattoo on Donut’s arm.

Donut took the time to study Locus, as well. He had a fair amount of scars. All scars that had been present when he arrived in Valhalla roughly a year ago. But they were clustered together. The most prominent was on his face. A X-shaped scar that looked like it’d been made with a knife, right between the eyes. But there were dozens of smaller, blotchier scars spreading from the right side of his face, speckling the cheek and jaw, and moving down his neck and what Donut could see of his shoulder. Donut looked sideways to gaze at the sheet of paper Locus was meant to be painting on, only to see that it hadn’t been touched.

“I only have commissary stamps,” Locus finally said.

“That’s fine. Or you can pay me in items. There are guys who pay me entirely in candy.”

“...Stamps are sufficient.”

Donut hummed slightly, watching Locus for a moment, before holding out his hand. “It’s not too cold today, but never know when that’ll change. Gimme the jacket. I’ll do that one for free. Drop your pants off with me later with some commissionary stamps.”

Locus considered it for a few more moments. “...Fine.” He removed his jacket. Doing so revealed that the small, blotchy scars continued along his shoulder and further down his left arm, ending close to the elbow. Donut eyed them for a moment before taking the jacket.

“Nice doing business with you, Locs. Can I call you Locs?”

“Absolutely not.”

Donut returned to his seat, carefully folding up the jacket and placing it away from the paint trays. Grif had woken up somewhat, not sitting up but watching the conversation as it had unfolded. He cast Locus one more doubtful look before, with a great amount of effort, turning his head so that he could see Donut and lowering his voice.

"Isn’t that the psycho who’s a cannibal or something?”

“Oh, that’s a new one! I’ve heard ‘serial killer,’ ‘serial rapist’ or ‘actually just a parking ticket that got way overblown in court.’ Plus, he’s in the smuggler’s section but I don’t think he started there, Felix said that was a cell transfer. Flowers thinks them sharing a cell will help them overcome their differences or something.”

“Could be all five. Creeps me out, anyway,” Grif muttered. “He never… does anything, y’know?”

“Grif, you never do anything either,” Donut pointed out. "You're trying to sleep right now."

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey. You are missing an important distinction,” Grif protested, pointing at Donut. “I go out of my way to do nothing, but doing nothing is a thing that I am doing. I’m slacking off, I’m trying to chill. Locus, on the other hand… he just sits and stares. It’s fucking creepy. I think he’s sizing up who’d be the most delicious on a grill.”

“Maybe. ...Can’t hurt to be nice to him, though.”

“I dunno, what if he decides that kindness and flavour are related?”

“I can hear you,” Locus said flatly. “You’re four feet away.”

“Don’t interrupt, dude,” Grif protested. “We’re having a conversation here.”

 

* * *

 

Outside the classroom, York turned to Caboose.

"Okay, so... Caboose..."

"Hello!"

"Hello. Uhhh..." York scratched his head, tilting his head a little to stare up at Caboose. "So. You like Freckles, right?"

"Yes! Freckles is my new best friend. One of my best friends. He is my best fuzzy friend. Betty Crocker is my all-time best friend. But he is only fuzzy in specific places."

"He sure is, Caboose. He sure is." York patted Caboose on the shoulder. "Look, I might be able to hook you up with a job, and it’ll give you more time with Freckles. But I need to ask… how are your animal problems going? With the pigeons?”

Caboose's wide smile immediately tailed off into a frown. "...I smooshed birds. And Apples. And maybe Mama. I did not mean to. But it was still bad.”

“But have you done that recently?”

“No. I have not tried to pet pigeons in a long time. And… and with Apples and Mama, I was angry first. I am… I am not angry much any more. I do not touch things when I am. Croustade said that was very important.”

“It’s not a great track record… but Freckles did like you, and you didn’t hurt him.”

Caboose immediately regained his wide smile. "Freckles is a strong puppy!"

"And since you get kicked off the laundry job a lot... I mean, first you smacked Tucker in the face, and we put you back there and—"

"I almost ironed my face," Caboose said in a hushed tone.

“Yeah, that. So… I’ll get you to help out with taking care of Freckles. Maybe C.C if she calms down a bit, but right now she only listens to me. Anyway, your job will be to play with Freckles, and to keep him happy and friendly. There will be a guard present, but they’ll primarily have other duties.”

"Yay! Tug-of-war time! This is going to be the best job ever! Like being a circus farmer! Or an astronaut!"

"Yeah. It will be exactly like being an astronaut. Come on, we’ll just get you to start with a short session of dog-patting, just to make sure Freckles will be alright around you."

York started walking Caboose towards the room he'd left the dogs in. Caboose babbled at a mile a minute as he trotted along, talking about all the fun games they could play. As he got nearer to the room, Wash appeared from around the corner.

"Hey, Wash!" York called out. "Caboose is down to help with Freckles. Want to come with and officially pass that duty on? It’ll be great, you can pass him the leash and it’ll be official and shit."

Wash opened his mouth and nothing came out. He looked like a deer that had been caught in the headlights.

"Dude, you don't have to be that guilty about ditching work. We got it covered! Seriously, come help."

"Uh... sorry, I have to... there's a..." Wash mumbled, before turning around and running off. Forget running, he practically sprinted.

"You don't have to put your hands near Freckles again!" York called after him. "You're not that scared of him, are you? Hey, Wash!" Wash was already gone. York frowned. "Well... that was weird."

Caboose peered over York's shoulder. "Is Washingtub avoiding you?"

"What? Nah, no reason to. He's probably got to do a patrol or something. Maybe he's constipated. Maybe someone kicked him in the junk and he's still sore about it. I dunno, it’s probably fine."


	6. Chapter Six: Ballots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church's memory continues to slip, and he and Delta discuss some issues. O'Malley comes up with a plan, and attempts to enlist help. Grif and Donut eat Skittles. Caboose plays with Freckles. C.T gets out of SHU. And the debate rages on.

A couple of days later, Church had forgotten something again. And it wasn’t as big as forgetting the illness of an old fri--coworker, but combined with that… well, it was worrying. Had he been forgetting things for a while, and they’d just all been small enough that no-one had pointed it out to him?

“Look, Dye-Job, I just don’t have it. And I really need those clothes back. Come on, don’t be a dick.”

“But my candy cigarettes, Church! I need those!” Donut protested, melodramatically waving his spoon. “I’m not running a charity, I’m running a business. That’s prison capitalism. So you pay me or I hold your pants hostage.”

“I don’t have any candy cigarettes! I blanked on them! Can’t you take something else? I’ve got a couple of candy bars, why does it have to be cigarettes?” Church complained. “I can’t just pull candy cigarettes out of my ass, and even if that was how I procured that stuff you probably wouldn’t want to shove it in your mouth.”

Most of the table was listening in on Church and Donut’s argument. Caboose was watching them both yell in a similar manner to spectators at a tennis match, while Tucker occasionally let out a snort that he tried to suppress. Both the Lopezes were present and watching, and occasionally made comments to each other.

Donut huffed, crossing his arms. “I’ll give your pants back if you cough up interest. Fifty percent.”

“Fuck off, do I look like I’m made of candy?”

Caboose squinted at Church seriously for a while before saying, “You are made of sour candy.”

“Shut up, Caboose. Twenty-five percent.”

Donut sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll give them back after breakfast. But you better pay up!”

“I’ll write it down. Fuck, I’m gonna need to smuggle in a pen at this rate. Sick of borrowing them from staff.”

Donut looked at Church, then down at his hand. “Oh, you’re doing the Memento thing? Is that why you’ve written ‘Check D’ on your hand?”

Tucker, who’d had a mouth full of bread roll, promptly choked on it. He started cackling in between coughs. “Oh man. Didn’t know you wrote it like that, Church.”

Church scowled, rubbing the pen marks on his hand. “I fucking abbreviated it, yeah. Quit laughing at me, dick.”

“What are you gonna do, grandpa? Hit me with your motorized wheelchair?”

"Believe me, if they ever give me a motorized wheelchair my first action will be to fucking run you down with it. But that's a long way away. I'm not that old!"

“Sure, grandpa.”

“You know, if Church is elderly that makes you a gerontophile, Tucker,” Donut chimed in.

“A what now?”

“Gerontophile. You’re into fucking old people.”

"I'm not that old!" Church yelled, covering his ears and trying to block out the conversation.

“ _ Fifties isn’t elderly. It’s just… uh… mature, _ ” Dos said.

“ _ No. Fifties is old. It’s just plain old, _ ” Lopez muttered.

“ _ You’re fifty-two, though. _ ”

“ _ And I have enough self-awareness to know that I’m in the old category. _ ”

"How do you even know that word, Dye-Job?" Tucker asked. "Aren't you supposed to be, y'know... brain of cotton candy? All fun, no substance? You know, like Grif's sister."

“I’m gonna rip what remains of your face off,” Grif grumbled, pushing his food around on his plate. He looked at his food for a moment longer, then dropped his spoon and moved to get up. Donut reached over and grabbed Grif’s sleeve.

“No, Grif.”

“I need to shit.”

“You can hold it for a little while,” Donut said tersely. This had been a pattern in the last few days. Grif trying to sneak off early and Donut not letting him. Grif scowled and sat back down. Donut eyed him for a moment longer before turning back to Tucker.

“Anyway, Sister’s not all cotton candy up there. She’s got business sense. I talked to her once when Grif was sick, and she told me about her club. It sounds amazing! I’m going once I get out of prison.”

“Wait, you’re already planning that?” Grif asked, giving Donut a bemused look.

“I gotta be ready. She said she’d save a spot for me at any events around that time. Anyway.” Donut pointed his spoon at Tucker. “My point is that you’re tapping old people, and that’s gross.”

“Hey, at least I’m getting some,” Tucker retorted. “Better than you can say, Dye-Job.”

“Just because I don’t brag about it--” Donut started.

“List one person, Donut. One.”

Donut wrinkled his nose, frowning, before muttering, “At least I have standards.”

“Sure you do. Bet you voted someone gross as the Hottest Staff Member.”

“Not that again,” Church muttered, head in his hands. “Who’s even winning that right now? Not that I care, but I just want it resolved so people will shut the fuck up about it.”

“ _ People keep voting for Sheila _ ,” Lopez grumbled.

“I mean, obviously you’d vote for Sheila, Lopez,” Tucker said, picking up on the one word understandable in English. “That’s just marriage loyalty. But last I heard, she was racking up the votes anyway. I guess it’s that ‘hello, nurse’ thing, y’know?”

“ _ She deserves to have the most votes. That doesn’t mean I have to be pleased about it _ ,” Lopez huffed. Dos gave him a brief pat on the shoulder.

“Anyway, I bet you’re gonna say someone lame,” Tucker said to Donut.

“I picked Niner.”

There was a pause, during which Tucker stared at Donut like he’d grown a second, significantly straighter head. He wasn’t the only one at the table who was giving Donut a disbelieving look. “...What the fuck?”

“Listen.” Donut pointed at Tucker. “No-one said that I had to pick the person that I, personally, found the most attractive. I chose the person who objectively seemed the best to me. Niner dresses to the nines--no pun intended--and her shampoo and perfume combination makes her smell amazing. Presentation is nine-tenths of the law. Plus, all the male staff members are old, jerks or old jerks.”

“Jesus Christ. I can’t even fault that logic,” Tucker said.

“Right? I mean, sure, if we totally stripped personality, presentation and age from the equation, it’d be Wash. But Wash is a huge tool and I hate him.”

“ _ Oh. Washington was my vote, _ ” Dos muttered. “ _ I find his voice pleasant to listen to. Also, muscles. _ ”

“You’re all wrong,” Grif said. “Flowers, dude. Flowers.”

“He does have presentation down,” Donut mused. “That Dutch flower braid is amazing.”

“It’s not even that. You remember that time when he made us cookies to try and motivate us to be better people? Holy. Fucking. Shit. I’d marry him, I’d do all the kinky shit he wanted, anything for a lifetime supply of those cookies. They were godly.”

“And Grif pops a boner for the food benefits. What a shocker,” Tucker sighed.

“Dude, they had caramel and peanut butter in them. They were still warm. How were they still warm?!”

 

* * *

“Catch, nerd.”

Delta didn’t lift his hand in time to catch the candy bar tossed at him. It just slipped out of his fingers before plopping into his lap. Delta picked it up, turning it over once as he examined the wrapper, before looking up at Church.

“I dislike sugar,” he said.

“Alright, well, you’re actually in your right mind then.” Church sat down on a nearby stool. “I’ve thrown stuff at you for the last couple of days but you were either incoherent or just comatose. Last time I was here, you were going on to Sheila about how you ‘were going to die and thus was valid for compassionate release.’ You’re a drama queen when you’re high.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“Anyway.” Church lowered his voice. “I had to think of some reason to visit you. This was the most legal one I could think of.”

“I thought I recalled you visiting,” Delta said. He turned the candy bar over in his hands. “You could not have found something savory?”

“Shove it, Dee.” Church shifted his chair closer. “You still feel like shit?”

“I was not in the clearest mind. But I have recovered somewhat.” Delta rubbed his face. He looked tired and a little feverish, but his eyes were alert. “Dr. Filss insisted that I remain here for now. I saw no reason to argue. O’Malley cannot harm me here, which will give me more time to come up with a counter to his schemes.”

“Yeah, we’ll figure something out for that. Like fuck he’s gonna get away with fucking up shit.”

“Once I am free, I will likely have time before he terminates me. O’Malley does not kill quickly if the option to do otherwise is there. Experience with Washington has shown--” Delta stopped mid-sentence before his eyes widened. “...Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Washington knows.”

“Wash… wait. Shit.” Church sat up straighter, a look of fear crossing his face. “You don’t mean--”

“I… I forgot until now. He came in here while I was… while I was not in the right mind. I spoke to him about something irrelevant. He said my codename.”

“Fuck, and he doesn’t think he’s mistaken?”

Delta covered his face with his hands. “He said ‘Delta?’ And I responded.”

“...You fucking idiot.”

“I was delirious. Idiocy does not enter into it,” Delta said, miffed.

“Fuck, dude, that’s not the point. Shit, do you know how fucking insane he is about this?” Church asked, his voice low again. “Donut told me that he got repeatedly harassed by the dude for killing Maine. That’s only some proxy shit. If he knows… seriously, do you have any idea?!”

"Do you not think I do not... no, that is not..." Delta paused for a bit before saying, "I am aware."

"And you know what he did to... to…” Church stopped, shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Does he know about all of us? He knows there was an Epsilon. What if he puts two and two... your codenames kind of suck, you know?!"

"Calm down."

"You calm down!"

“There is no need for you to worry. Washington does not know about you. Nor does he know about Epsilon. Or Theta. He can speculate, but he cannot know the facts. As far as he knows… you and I have no association.” Delta looked at Church, then looked down again. “We must… continue to have no association.”

Church leaned back and frowned at Delta. “Not even--”

“Not even trading. Not even a passing conversation. No association, period.”

“But what the fuck are you going to do, then? How are you going to stop Wash? Or O’Malley? Dee, if you don’t let me help you’re going to fucking die.”

Delta looked at Church. He tilted his head slightly. After a moment of thought he said, “If I die, then I die. That is all there is to it. There is no need to pull others down with me. I have gone down that path before. I have watched Theta go down that path. Between Theta and I, we destroyed our entire syndicate. I have learned. There are some things that must be done on my own.”

“Don’t be fucking--”

“Excuse me, doctor?” Delta called out.

Sheila had been sitting in the corner of the infirmary, barely visible as she worked on paperwork. She looked over at Delta, then put her pen down before getting up and walking towards them.

“This man is pestering me,” Delta said as Sheila got closer. “I do not want to talk to him.”

“Hey--”

“Out, Church,” Sheila said. “No bothering my patients.”

“Wait, this is bullshit! Dee, don’t be fucking stu--”

That was as far as Church got before he was kicked out of the infirmary. He watched the door close in his face.

“...Fucking idiot,” Church muttered under his breath.

 

* * *

O’Malley had spent the last couple of days making plans. Figuring out the best way to put Doc in his place. But there was a problem. O’Malley couldn’t carry out his plan on his own.

If it was just a matter of Doc, then that would be one thing. But it wasn’t. And O’Malley’s encounter with Delta had reinforced one thing. If O’Malley wanted to teach Doc the strongest lesson he could, then he’d need assistance.

Of course, Church and his little rules had made getting help difficult. So few wanted to be cut off from the smuggled supplies that Church offered. But there were rumors of certain inmates with violent proclivities, or unwavering professionalism, or a combination of both. Inmates who didn’t interact with Church enough to get goods as it was, and thus were free from being affected by him.

Locus was also easy to approach without anyone seeing. Locus didn’t really leave his cell much. Even when he did, he spoke to no-one. He just sat there, like a man waiting for the bus.

O’Malley found him. Introduced himself. Sat himself on the top bunk of the cell and told Locus what he wanted. It was a long explanation, regularly interrupted by O’Malley coming up with new vengeance ideas on the spot. Doc’s ‘infidelity’ may have been bothering him, but it sure did get the creative juices flowing.

Locus didn’t say a word until O’Malley finished. Once O’Malley ran out of words, Locus only said one.

“No.”

“And may I ask why not?”

“A better question is why you came to me to begin with.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve done your fair share of brutality on the outside. I heard you were into some messed up things. Lots of murder, and that’s the light accusations. I thought this would be right up your alley. Out of curiosity, are the cannibal rumors true?”

“This is not murder. What you want is petty vengeance.” Locus eyed O’Malley, studying his face. After a moment he said, “You remind me of someone.”

“He must be a fun person.”

“I’m curious. What is it about vengeance that is so appealing? What is it about slights done by these people, that people like you allow them to have such control over your emotions?” Locus tilted his head and said, “Why does Doc have this much power over you?”

O’Malley opened and shut his mouth for a moment, going red in the face, before finally saying, “How dare you!” He jabbed a finger into Locus’ chest. “He has no power over me. I have the power. This is about showing him that I do! He is mine and he will stay mine.”

“Do not touch me,” Locus said coolly.

O’Malley thought about jabbing him again just to make a point, but ended up grimacing and lowering his hand.

“You are not entirely wrong about what I do. But I am a professional. I do the job and that is all. You have offered me no payment, nor have you offered any particularly strong incentive. What you have offered me is the hobby of a monster and the motive of a spoiled child. That is not how I operate.”

“I am not a child,” O’Malley said, glaring at Locus.

“This job only matters because someone made you mad. What are you, if not a child throwing a tantrum?”

O’Malley had no words, but he knew Locus was wrong. Even so, his mind drifted to Doc. To how he squirmed and babbled. And how, lately, he would make all those passive comments about how O’Malley acting up would limit their time together. Doc being pinned down only to mumble that Wash would appear soon for lunch. All these little terms and conditions on O’Malley continuing his torments.

But O’Malley shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind. As he did so, a voice spoke up at the cell’s entrance.

“Get the fuck off my bunk, asshole.” Felix walked in, frowning at O’Malley. He jabbed a thumb in Locus’ direction. “I have to put up with him, but you ain't got that privilege.”

Felix grabbed O’Malley by the jacket and yanked him off the bunk. O’Malley would have fought back, as being bossed around was a level of demeaning that he couldn't withstand. But he felt Felix slip a bit of paper into his pocket, just out of view of Locus, before shoving him out of the cell.

O’Malley didn't read it until he was far from the cell, scanning the first couple of lines.

 

**Sounds like fun. I’m in. But it’ll be our little secret.**

 

The rest was a suggestion for where to meet and discuss this further. O’Malley smiled a little as he stuck the note in his pocket. Well, at least someone in this prison had a sense of fun. 

Not like Locus, who was both a buzzkill and just plain wrong. Doc had no power over him. And O’Malley would show Doc just how in control he could be.

 

* * *

Donut couldn't watch Grif forever. Eventually, he had to pee. It took those two minutes to come back to Grif holding a little handle of colourful pellets. 

Donut's reaction of slapping them out of his hand may have been a little extreme.

"Donut! What the fuck?" Grif yelled.

"I left you alone for two minutes! TWO! MINUTES! Did you take any?" Donut shouted.

"What? No. I didn't take anything."

"Did you teleport to your stupid dealer? I... I... argh! Grif, listen to me! You can't do this!"

"Uh."

"You can't go off chasing the dragon!"

"The... what?"

"You're falling off the wagon! Shaking hands with the devil!" Donut wailed.

"I don't—"

"Riding the wave and tripping the technicolour dreamscape!"

"What are you even—"

"Choose life, Grif! CHOOSE LIFE!"

"...Dude, you have a really strong hatred of Skittles."

"Skittles?"

"Yeah. Skittles, alright?" Grif held up the packet he'd been holding in his other hand. "Jesus. You thought I was popping pills in the middle of the yard? I'm not an idiot. You owe me a handful of Skittles, asshole."

Donut looked down at the candies that were littering the concrete ground before frowning and leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He'd gone bright pink in the face. "Oh."

Grif tipped a few more Skittles into his hand and popped them into his mouth and chewed slowly, studying Donut. He rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment.

"You don't have to worry, dude."

"Sure I do. That's my job," Donut grumbled.

"Yeah? Who's paying you?"

"It's volunteer work. Or an unpaid internship or something."

"Pssh. Look, seriously, don't worry about it. I'm not going to take every pill, needle and enema that those guys are offering."

"I don't want you to take anything!"

"It's barely anything! I’m just wasting some time. It’s not an addiction, it’s just… I mean, you drink on occasion but that doesn’t make you an alcoholic. It’s like that,” Grif said defensively.

"Then you shouldn't have any problem not doing it again."

Grif fished out a few more Skittles and rolled the candies around in his hands for a moment, his eyes unfocused. For a moment, he looked sad and tired. Then the expression was gone.

"Skittle?" Grif offered, holding out the packet. Donut took a couple, sticking them in his mouth. While he’d negotiated laundry deals with a lot of inmates, only a few paid him in candy and mostly that was candy cigarettes. Skittles were too pricy. Donut hadn’t eaten them in a while.

They stood there for a while. Not talking. Just eating. The silence was comfortable, though there was still underlying tension. It hadn't passed Donut's attention that Grif hadn't said he wouldn't try drugs again.

Grif crumpled up the now-empty Skittle packet before flicking it away, letting it fall on the concrete. Then he reached over and lightly pushed Donut's shoulder. A short, affectionate gesture.

"Don't worry so much, Donut. You'll burn yourself out."

He wandered back towards the prison. Donut hesitated for a moment, scuffing his feet against the ground, before following. Easy for Grif to say. But if he didn't worry, who else would?

 

* * *

"Wash! Hey, Wash!"

The moment Wash heard York's voice, he almost gave into the urge to pretend he hadn't heard, run away and hide. But he didn't. York caught up to him.

"Hey, I haven't seen you in forever."

“It’s been three days, York. I’ve been busy,” Wash muttered. “And I’m tired. I’m going home.”

"Are you taking nighttime shifts? You hate nighttime shifts,” York said, falling into step beside him.

"...No, I don't."

"I'm pretty sure you do. I mean... darkness and all that. Only a flashlight to stop you from flipping—"

"I'm busy, York."

Wash tried to leave York behind. York was persistent, though, speeding up to match Wash’s footsteps.

"Man, I guess Caboose was right for once. You're avoiding me, aren't you?"

Wash said nothing.

"You are. I mean, why else would you take every shift I don't have? You didn’t go drinking with me and Doc, either. I asked Doc if he’d heard anything and he was really evasive on the subject. Plus, I tried visiting you a few days back at your apartment and you didn't answer the door, and you only really leave your home to visit either me or Doc. I didn’t break in, though. I remembered how much you hate having to replace the locks.”

“Wow, York. You conquered the urge that most people resist on a daily basis.”

“See, I’m used to that. The snark and everything. I miss that, dude. Anyway, just… if you’re angry at me, just tell me why. I’ll apologise, make it right and we can go back to hanging out. I mean, I can’t even think of what I might have done, but if there’s something--”

"I'm not angry at you."

"Then why are you avoiding me? I mean, if you did something like when we were drunk and you threw up in my bathtub and forgot to tell me—totally gross, by the way—that's cool. I'm not angry about that."

"York."

"Yeah, man?"

Wash had stared determinedly away from York for this entire conversation. He couldn't look York in the face. Because he was barely holding it together as it was, and if he looked at York right now... looked at the guy who'd helped him when no-one else would... looked at the guy who he'd lied to for so long…

He was afraid he'd spill everything. He was afraid of what would happen if he did.

“I just… need to be left alone for a while. Alright?” Wash said quietly.

“Wash--”

“Take a hint. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Wash didn’t look at York. Just waited for a response. It was a long wait.

“...Alright,” York finally said. “Fine. Just… whatever you, uh… yeah. Okay.”

The footsteps receded. Only then did Wash breathe long and deep, trying to get his composure under control again.

 

* * *

O’Malley had to admit, his expectations from this Felix kid hadn’t been high. Sure, he had an obvious sense of fun. But what O’Malley had expected was an extra set of hands. Enough to get things done. That was all.

Two days later, he had dramatically reversed this opinion.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Felix balanced the point of the knife on his finger. An actual, legitimate knife. O’Malley had nearly forgotten what real knives looked like, having been restricted to screwdrivers and shivs for so long. O’Malley’s fingers itched as he watched Felix play with the weapon.

“Listen. You might be happy working with screwdrivers. But I’m a man of needs, and one of those needs is for a good knife.” Felix let the knife fall, catching it by the handle, before offering it to O’Malley. “This is a loan, by the way. I want it back when you’re done.”

“A lot of trust you’re putting in me. Handing me something like this with expectations like that,” O’Malley breathed, taking the knife. He weighed it in his hands. God, it was perfect. Almost as good as his old surgical tools.

“I mean, if you don’t I’ll just kill you and take it. Ain’t no skin off my back,” Felix said, watching O’Malley rub a finger along the flat of the blade. “Jesus, you want a minute alone with that?”

“And where oh where did you get this? I want to put in a commission,” O’Malley said, eyes not moving from the knife.

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out. Also.” Felix tossed out a roll of industrial tape. “Could use that.”

“You are just Christmas come early,” O’Malley laughed. Felix shrugged, giving a grin as equally vicious as O’Malley’s own. O’Malley studied the knife for a moment, then looked back at Felix.

“So. I get what I want. I teach my dear Doc a lesson. And the only price I have to pay is keeping your identity a secret. It seems too good to be true.” O’Malley turned the knife over in his hands. “What’s your angle?”

“It’s been a year of playing nice. I’m bored,” Felix said simply. “And you’ve got style. Do you know how difficult it is to find a bona-fide torture technician? I only know, like, one. And they won’t let me watch.”

“Ours is a dying breed,” O’Malley sighed.

“That’s why you need to pass on those tips, old man. Come on. Be like the father I never knifed.”

“Oh, I’ll show you some things, alright.”

“Sweet. Just…” Felix looked at the knife and held his hands up. “Can you try not to jerk off while holding that knife? I’ve been there, trust me, but that’s also my property and I don’t want you jizzing all over it.”

“...I can’t make any promises.”

“Probably wouldn’t keep them if you did.”

 

* * *

Every week or so, Church picked up things from Tex and Doc to sell to the other inmates. It was easier with Tex. She just found him in his cell and threw him the goods. They didn't bother being too subtle about it, because no-one really cared if it was kept to legal goods. Church much preferred this to the old days of information trading and blackmail. Too much thinking, too much sneaking around, too much getting hit in the face, all for a fraction of the profit. Smuggling was a much sweeter gig.

Except for when Tex walked in, supplies in hand, while Church and Tucker were both sleeping in the same bed. Normally Church kicked Tucker off his bunk the night before Tex showed up with a pile of goods. Being caught snuggling with a dude in front of his ex-girlfriend was just embarrassing. Hell, trying to snuggle with Tex while they'd been dating had been embarrassing enough on its own. But it just slipped Church’s mind.

He woke up to Tex taking a photo of them with her phone.

"Buenos dias, cockbites."

"Oh, shit! Tex, what the fuck?!" Church yelled, uncomfortably aware that Tucker (that motherfucking cuddler) had a very tight grip on him. He was still asleep, having gained the ability to tune out Church's usual shouting while asleep. Church tried to squirm his way out, to no avail, and settled for just tugging the thin sheets up a bit.

"So. Another night of romance in the cells, huh?" Tex said, grinning down at him.

"Gimme that phone."

"Nah. I'm building a collection. One day I'll start a website."

"What the fuck kind of people would look at that?"

"Hey, if I get some more shots of you two banging—"

"More?! You mean you have some?!"

"Not many. ...Hey, you only have three walls and some flimsy bars, you might as well be on stage. Anyhow, I'm sure there's a market for elderly, grumpy cockbites and their blind fuckbuddies."

"I'm not elderly. ...And you're older than me! You're, what? Sixty?"

"Sixty-one. But I age better than you."

Church couldn't argue with that. Tex was noticeably older, but in a way that had only added steel and presence to her. Not to mention she could still clearly kick the ass of anyone in this prison. Some bitches got all the luck.

Tucker stirred a little, pressing his face into Church's shoulder as he mumbled, "Five more minutes."

"Screw that, get the hell off my bunk."

"Wow. Harsh, Church."

"Look, just give me my damn money and I'll give you the stuff," Tex sighed. "I've got things to do."

"Oh, Tex is here?" Tucker turned his face to approximately where Tex was standing, a sleazy grin crossing his face. "Hey, sweet cheeks. Care to join us?" He patted the mattress, wiggling his eyebrows.

Tex looked faintly nauseous and like she was inwardly debating the best place to kick Tucker. Church responded by pushing him off the bed.

"Ow."

Church rolled out of bed and headed to his footlocker to find what he owed Tex. He rummaged around for a minute before realising the money wasn't there. 

After a moment of consideration, he checked his hand. Looking at the various smudges of ink, he made out one that said ‘m - sink pipe.’ Sure enough, when he checked the back of the sink pipe he found the money taped to it. Feeling disconcerted, Church handed it to Tex with the scraps of tape still dangling off it, and Tex handed him a paper bag. It was mostly filled with food items and cigarettes.

"Great doing business with you. Well. It wasn't completely awful."

"Right back at you," Church yawned.

Once Tex was gone, Church threw a squeezy bottle of mayonnaise from the bag at Tucker. It hit him square in the face.

"Dude. You're hurting me. I am wounded. How could you?"

"It's mayonnaise, Tucker. Not a sniper round. Why did you want so much mayonnaise, anyway?"

"What's wrong with mayonnaise?" Tucker grumbled defensively. "It doubles as a great sunscreen."

"How did—nevermind. I gotta go see Doc after breakfast. He owes me some alcohol."

"Whatever. I'm going back to sleep."

 

* * *

A week on from the argument’s start and the debate had spread throughout the prison. Finally, measures were being taken to settle the debate once and for all.

Andersmith had been caught up in it quite by accident. He’d heard the argument, of course he had. But he hadn’t really considered it, and when asked for his opinion he’d just shrugged. He’d told Palomo that he had no preference.

“Just go with what your boner says, Smith!” Palomo had told him.

Smith had truthfully told him that his 'boner' had very little to say on the subject. Sure, he supposed he could make a choice of which staff member looked or acted the nicest. But in terms of romance or sexual matters he'd never felt more than indifference. So when some other inmates had insisted that a tally finally be taken, Palomo had volunteered Andersmith for the duty of poll collector.  


“You’re unbiased. You won’t rig the votes,” Palomo had said. 

Andersmith supposed that was fair.  


Now he was walking to each group of inmates eating breakfast in the cafeteria, a red beanie in one hand--where had Palomo gotten this from? It didn’t seem his style, Palomo was more of a teal fellow--and a crayon and wad of papers in the other. He’d start to explain the argument, and every inmate would shush him and tell him they already knew, and already had their choices lined up.

It was all very serious business.

With a nearly full beanie of ballots, Andersmith headed for the cells. He’d do a full lap of the cell blocks, looking for anyone sleeping in or relaxing, before heading out to the yard to do the same. It was a Sunday, so there was no work today. That meant he could do this at his leisure.

“What’s in the hat, Smith?” a voice piped up from behind him. Andersmith turned to see Jensen trying to peer into the hat, smiling wide enough to show her braces.

“Hey, Jensen. It’s just a silly inmate discussion. Nothing sinister, I promise,” Andersmith said, smiling back.

“This wouldn’t be the ‘Staff Hotness’ debate I’ve heard going around, would it?”

“Got it in one,” Andersmith said. Jensen peered at the ballots, reaching out to touch one, but Andersmith covered the hat with his hand. “Jensennn,” he said sternly. “I’d love to show you the results, but I take my duty very seriously. Can’t risk tampering.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear them all around the prison by tomorrow.” After another glance at the beanie, Jensen chewed thoughtfully on her lip for a moment. “...I bet Girlie wins. She’s stunning.”

“Which one is she?”

“You know. Shoulder-length blonde hair that looks like it came out of a shampoo commercial,” Jensen sighed, tugging at one of her own impossible-to-control curls.

“The angry blonde guard?”

“All the blonde guards are angry. Well, except North.”

“...True.”

 

* * *

"Freckles! Freckles, sit!"

Freckles sat down obediently, tail wagging happily as he waited for Caboose to give more orders. 

"Good boy, Freckles! Who wants a treat?” Caboose raised his voice and bellowed. “Missus Grapedrink! Freckles needs treats!”

The guard who’d been assigned to both yard duty and ‘keep an eye on Caboose’ duty, Sherry, responded by throwing the small bag of dog treats at Caboose.

Originally, it hadn’t been the plan to let Caboose take Freckles out to the yard. But dogs needed the outdoors and Caboose had both more control over Freckles than anyone in prison, as well as the goodwill not to do anything with that control but teach Freckles new tricks.

Donut and Grif were sitting nearby. Donut had his chin propped on his hands and was watching Caboose play with Freckles. He wanted to join in so badly. He hadn’t seen Caboose so happy in so long. On the other hand, Freckles was terrifying. When near Caboose, Freckles behaved like a loveable puppy. But the moment anyone else went close, Freckles immediately switched back to the attitude of a dangerous guard dog.

Grif wasn’t paying attention. He was just zoning out, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. He couldn't stay still. His eyes occasionally lingered on Birdie, who was wandering about elsewhere in the yard. Each time Grif saw him, he'd watch for a little while, then start chewing on his lip and look anywhere else. He would get more fidgety every time he did this.

“Okay, now… shake! Freckles, shake!” Caboose held out his hand to shake Freckles’ paw. Freckles paused for a moment, then shook like he was trying to dry himself after a bath. “Aw, you’re such a clever boy! Have another treat!”

“That wasn’t even the right shake,” Sherry complained. “You’re gonna use up all my treats.”

“Freckles deserves so many treats,” Caboose cooed.

“Look, slow down on the treats and I’ll give you a chocolate bar,” Sherry said, rifling through her pockets. “...Crap, where did I put it?”

“I got it!” Ohio had wandered up to watch Caboose training Freckles, and now she was also rifling through her pockets. “You gave it to Terrill so that he’d take one of your shifts. Then Terrill gave it to Iowa because Iowa ate a fly and he thought chocolate would soothe it. Then Iowa gave it to me because he caught me crying over Kung Fu Panda. ...You can’t go dog-treating inmates, Sherry.”

“Aw, why not?”

“It’s conditioning. You can’t condition people. It’s weird.”

“It’s not conditioning. It’s bribery,” Sherry insisted.

“I do not want it. Freckles is more important,” Caboose said seriously.

“No takebacks,” Ohio said, finally locating the chocolate bar and unwrapping it. She snapped part of it off and stuck it in her mouth before holding the rest out to Sherry. “Wassome?” she asked through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Do I want some? Is all food better on a stick? Of course I want some.”

Caboose looked over at Donut. “Pevarini! Do you want to pat Freckles?”

“I’m good,” Donut said, watching as Caboose gave Freckles a neck rub and cooed softly at him.

“But Freckles is very fluffy.”

“He also has very sharp teeth. And I need my hands to… well, do basically everything,” Donut muttered, watching Freckles wag his tail.

“Freckles will not bite you. He is a good puppy.”

Grif looked at Freckles, then at Donut. “Don’t do it, dude.”

“He really is very fluffy, though,” Donut said longingly. 

“Dude. Don’t. You’re gonna die and I’m not cleaning it up.”

“But… but…” Donut looked at Caboose, who was giving him puppy eyes even more effective than Freckles’ own, then looked at Grif. After a moment, he reached out and gripped Grif’s shoulder, staring him down seriously. “Duty calls, Grif.”

“Donut, no!”

“Remember me how I was,” Donut said solemnly, squeezing Grif’s shoulder tightly before letting go and heading off to his fate.

 

* * *

“You look terrible,” Demo said bluntly.

“I hate the shoe. The shoe’s the worst,” C.T muttered, flopping down to sit next to Demo. He’d only been in there a week, but it’d felt like months. There were only so many push-ups he could do to amuse himself. He would have given anything for a diversion. But there were none, not after Flowers came to visit him.

“I hear that.” Demo was watching Caboose and Freckles. He pointed at them. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks that Donut’s about to lose a hand.”

“I’m not taking that action.” C.T rubbed his face, feeling the scratchy feeling of the stubble he’d grown while in the shoe. “Any big changes?”

“Guards mostly cleared us out during the cell checks. We got some leftovers and the dogs don’t know the smell of the one-ups, but no more business until we can build our stock up again. Girlie and the twins are working on it, and Sharkface found a good place to hide it. Other than that, not much.”

“Where’s Sharkface, anyway? He’s normally out here by now.”

“My guess? Probably fooling around with that guard he was making eyes at.”

C.T sighed. “Of course he is. Let me guess. The UFO guard?”

“The UFO guard.”

“Knew it. My other guess was Washington, because Terrence has a bit of a scar thing. But his face is too on-point. Connie showed me pictures of some of Sharkface’s past boyfriends. Every one of them looks either scarred, decorated or just plain weird. You can add scars or tattoos, you can’t add weird. If he starts trying to knife the guard or give him tattoos it’s probably a fetish thing.”

“Gross,” Demo muttered.

“Well, everyone has their quirks,” C.T said dismissively. “So, how are we going to get around that dog?”

He nodded his head at Freckles. Freckles was currently snarling at Donut, who had his hand stretched out but had frozen in place some feet away. Caboose was cooing at Freckles to try and calm him down.

“Sniffer dogs aren’t infallible. I’m coming up with some ideas. Once I’ve figured them out, I’m gonna bribe some schmucks to test any methods of concealing the scent.”

“Alright. Alright…” C.T nodded slightly, continuing to watch the dog. As he watched, Freckles sat down and stopped snarling, and Donut managed to reach out and give him a cautious head pat that soon turned into a more energetic backscratch. “...Rats, should have taken that bet.”

“Maybe next time. I’m sure that dog will bite someone’s hand off at some point,” Demo said. “Want to take bets on if it’ll happen when I send the schmucks over there? I’m thinking of using Scully.”

“Oh, that’ll be a bite, for sure.”

 

* * *

This was the third time in the last week that Sharkface had met Stassney in the unused storage room, and the time spent there was 49% highly illegal banging, 2% waiting until Stassney had gone so that Sharkface could then sneak any smuggled goods into the room (business always called) and 49% disagreements on the causes of mysterious natural phenomena.

Theoretically, the sex should have been like 80% of all this, with the arguments only serving as a distraction while they recovered, but Stassney really liked to argue.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s obviously UFOs! Humans ain’t had the technology for supersonic flight as long as this phenomenon has been occurring,” Stassney insisted. He was sitting on the floor across from Sharkface, leaning against a shelf that had some one-ups tucked away up the top.

“Alright, perhaps it's not military aircraft, then. Personally, I prefer the ‘underwater caves’ idea,” Sharkface grunted.

“What a fuckin’ surprise. Just admit that it’s aliens. Underwater caves are the most boring answer you could think of.”

“...You take that back.”

Stassney tossed his hands into the air. “Listen, if it’s underwater caves then why does it happen in the sky so often? Checkmate.”

“Because it’s caused by the air that comes out of underwater caves! It goes up, and boom!” Sharkface waved his hands in the air. “Don’t question me on ocean science. Anyway, if the aliens are so high-tech how come they don’t just blast off far away from any humans? Stay under the radar? Or use their weird tech to cover the boom up? If they can cover the spaceship but not the sound it makes--”

“Okay, how about this?” Stassney paused, hands stretched out to shush Sharkface as he thought about it, before nodding seriously. “How about military aircraft that has its roots in discarded alien technology? So they only have some of the pieces to go on, and are still smoothing out all the stealth aspects.”

“...Maybe.”

Sharkface was ready for Round Two, but the discussion took a higher priority.

“What about krakens? Or megalodons?” Sharkface suggested.

“Are you working under the assumption that krakens and megalodons are or aren’t aliens? ...Do you just really want a giant shark moving at supersonic speed?”

“...That’s not relevant.”

 

* * *

 

Doc approached the staff room to get his morning herbal tea before starting his sessions. Sunday was a busy day. There were no work for the inmates, nor any art therapy classes or education. But it also meant that inmates were free to ask for his help at any hour, and often a lot of them did turn up at his office to talk. He needed tea, and he had a box of oatmeal cookies to leave in the breakroom. He’d made some for the inmates who visited him, and now he had leftovers for the staff.

He entered the staff room to find that it was surprisingly crowded and noisy, with most of the staff members within huddled around a wall. Doc couldn’t see York, but he could hear his voice.

“What the hell is this? I demand a recount!”

“York, you’re the one who counted them,” said North’s voice, clearly exasperated.

“I failed Math in high school, I demand a recount! This can’t be right! I refuse to accept it!”

Doc headed for the kitchen counter, where Kimball and Doyle were watching the crowd from a distance. Kimball moved aside slightly so that Doc could reach the cabinet that the herbal tea was stored in. “What are they doing?”

“York confiscated a beanie filled with ballots about who the hottest staff member is, under the grounds that it was ‘unprofessional to discuss the staff in sexual terms,’” Doyle explained.

“And everyone’s gathered here because…?” Doc asked, placing the oatmeal cookies on the kitchen counter.

“Because now York is counting the ballots and making a chart,” Kimball said. She glanced at Doyle before looking back at Doc. “I haven’t tried wading in there yet. It’s chaos. Besides, I have a bet with Doyle on who won and we can’t compromise the bet by approaching before they’re done.”

“York, stop interfering with the results!” South yelled from amongst the crowd.

“I’m just trying to boost Doc’s ego a bit!” York said.

In response, Doc cleared his throat slightly and gave a little awkward wave. “Hi. Boost my ego?”

A couple of guards moved aside so that Doc could see what was pinned on the wall nearest to the breakroom table. A chart that resembled the sort found on the walls of a primary school, where children were awarded gold stars for good behavior. On it was listed every staff member that worked at Valhalla.

All of them had at least one star next to them (the lowest was Stassney at exactly one). All the staff members except Doc, judging by the fact that York was trying to stick impromptu stars next to his name. As if the chart itself was resisting sabotage, any star York stuck next to Doc’s name fell off immediately.

York looked at Doc, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He was wearing a bright red beanie that Doc hadn’t seen before. Probably the ballot beanie. “They just won’t stick, is all. They’re legit.”

“No, they’re not!” South yelled from the breakroom table.

“South, please! I’m trying to increase someone’s self-confidence here!”

Doc laughed a little. “It’s fine. I appreciate the thought, but I’m honestly kind of relieved not to have any votes.” That was putting it mildly. The idea of anyone voting for him made him deeply uneasy. Doc looked at the chart. Then at the sheets of stickers on the nearby table. “...Are those the stickers I bought for therapy?”

York waved his hand. “That’s not important. The point is that my honor is at stake. Look at this!” He gestured at the chart. “I got less votes than Wash! Granted, Wash is a good-looking guy if you minus about thirty years of stress, but look at me! Doc, come on, tell me I’m pretty!”

Doc gave York a long, doubtful look. “...Prettier than Wash?”

York threw his hands up in the air in a huff.

“There’s still another third of the votes to go. Maybe you’ll get a darkhorse victory,” North said. 

“A third? How come I didn’t count--” York stopped midway as South dropped the remaining third on the table, having been hiding them until that point. “South, why?”

“I wanted to see your hissy fit,” South said.

“That is slander. Slander, I tell you.”

Doc couldn’t help laughing, covering his mouth as he did so. As he did, he spotted movement in the corner of his eye. Doc turned to see Wash vanish from the doorway before anyone else saw him. 

 

* * *

Wash headed towards his area of patrol, leaving the noise of everyone chattering behind him. He’d been curious as to what they were all on about. Not to mention that whatever it was, it had made Doc laugh. Doc didn’t laugh all that much. But the idea of entering the same room as both York and South was not a good one. In the case of York it was why he’d been switching shifts a lot lately, getting on the night shift if he had to.

But he had a limit of how many night shifts he could deal with. The flashlight was helpful, but it didn’t quell the fear he had of the dark. The voices that were his memory kept reminding him of what the dark meant. Some risks just weren’t worth it. At least he could flee from York. He couldn’t flee from darkness, since it was an absence of something rather than something in of itself.

Wash’s phone beeped once. A text message alert. It was Doc.

 

**u run rly fast**

**couldnt catchup holding tea :(**

 

Wash slowed down his pacing as he typed out a response.

 

**It’s fine.**

**Too noisy in there.**

 

**rly? :O**

**wash u are doin very well in the pretty contest \o/**

 

**What.**

 

**nvm explain later**

**wash u have to face york sometime**

 

Wash sighed, pausing for a minute before typing out his answer.

 

**I know. Not today.**

 

**okay**

**i have cookies for lunch :D**

**lunchtime not full lunch u have to have vitamins**

 

Wash snorted. He started typing back a reply, but paused to yawn loudly in the middle of it. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Not that he ever slept well, exactly. He’d always been jumpy. Too ready to be ambushed. During the months they’d lived together he’d once jumped up and punched York in the face. But even by his usual standards he was sleeping badly.

He didn’t like to take sleeping pills, but maybe Doc had some weird herbal remedy. Wash considered herbal remedies a load of bunk, but perhaps the placebo would be enough.

 

**Do you have any**

 

Something hit him hard in the back of the head.

Wash was unconscious before he even realised someone had been following him.

 

* * *

Felix picked up the phone, glanced at the unsent message and deleted it, before sending a quick replacement message.

 

**sounds good**

**need to get to work**

 

**okay have fun :)**

 

“I’m sure I will,” Felix muttered under his breath, grinning, before slipping the phone into his pocket.


	7. Chapter Seven: Deja Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Malley enacts his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes:
> 
> First off, IF YOU NEVER READ THE TAG WARNINGS YOU BETTER DO IT NOW. A lot of the stuff I warn for is going to come up in this chapter. And if you get uncomfortable with the content, use word search and search for 'Felix' because he's only specifically named right after the worst is over. I've done my best to make it readable if you skip to that without repeating myself too much.
> 
> Second, the chapter after this is the last one before the first round of flashbacks, and the last one I actually have proper written. So likely going to take a week break after that to get the flashbacks actually damn finished. (The flashbacks will be a set of three chapters, just keeping each character's flashback separate this time.)

“Rise and shine, Washington.”

Wash felt dizzy and nauseous. He felt like he could easily vomit, but he wouldn't be able to if he tried. There was something in his mouth. If he vomited, he would likely suffocate.

He tried to touch his face, but he couldn't move his arms. His brain was too muddled to get disturbed by this, so he only felt a vague sense of puzzlement. He started prodding what was in his mouth with his tongue, feeling the texture. Scratchy texture. Cheap fabric? He could have pushed it out if it was just that, but something—tape, judging by the sides of his face—kept it crammed in so tightly that he could barely move his tongue to begin with. 

It took him this long to realise that he was in the dark.

Wash sat up as straight as he could, breathing hard through his nose as he finally absorbed the situation fully. He tried to move his legs, but they were bound to the chair he was sitting on, just like his arms. He attempted, with growing panic, to shift the chair. Roll onto his side, maybe. But someone grabbed the chair and moved it back.

Wash heard movement in front of him.

"Struggle if you want, Washington. It just makes it better for me. But it won't help."

O'Malley. Wash's struggling doubled. He made muffled noises through the gag, and had there been no gag the words would have been clear. Or rather one word. 'No.' Repeated over and over.

"It’s a little like the old basement, isn’t it? Ahhh, the fun times we had there, don't you remember? Alas, there were no pipes I could chain your neck to. And I'll have to keep you gagged this time, so I'm afraid no pliers. But I've still got some fun toys to play with."

A smooth, sharp edge glided along Wash's arm. It brought searing pain with it, as O'Malley left a long, but shallow, cut. A fresh, red line weaving its way between all the old scar tissue. Wash didn't need to actually see it: his imagination did a good enough job on its own.

Wash forced the hiss of pain to stay down. He didn't want to give O'Malley the satisfaction.

Fingers brushed the new wound, smearing blood. The same hand then touched his face. Wash felt damp streaks left across his jaw, as a thumb rubbed his cheek in what would have been a reassuring, comforting gesture were it not for the person doing it. Wash jerked his head away, only for the hand to grab his chin and force him back.

"Such a fighter. We're going to have so much fun. Just like the old days. I even brought a friend with me."

O'Malley didn't have friends. Not in here. Wash looked left and right, trying to see in the darkness. 

And then he heard it. A soft, growling sound.

It didn't sound exactly like Meta, and the rapidly shrinking rational part of Wash's brain pointed out that it was impossible. The Meta was dead. Wash had seen the obituaries, the news articles, the photos. This growling was different. A bit higher. But it was close enough. And in the dark, where Wash couldn't confirm the difference with his eyes, what little remained of his calm dissolved fast.

Wash suddenly rocked to the side and managed to knock the chair he was tied to over, clattering to the floor. Wash attempted to crawl towards the door, but the most he could attempt was doing a limited, scrunchy kind of crawl. Even that didn't work well. He didn't even know where the door was. He just picked a direction.

He didn't even make it a couple of inches before someone grabbed his chair and propped it up again. Wash tried to rock the chair away again, but he couldn't move the chair more than an inch, and each time it got moved back again.

O'Malley giggled quietly. "Oh, Wash, you'll have to do so much more to escape than to attempt crawling like a crippled caterpillar."

O'Malley laughing was the last thing he heard before he got knocked out again.

 

* * *

When Wash woke up again, he was still in the dark. Someone had wrapped his arm up. Not with a proper bandage. It felt like the scratchy material in his mouth. Part of a prison jumpsuit or sheet would be his guess.

"That's enough of a nap, Wash."

O'Malley lightly slapped him in the face. Wash didn't move.

"I heard your breathing change. I know you're awake." More giggling. The knife brushed his face. Not a shiv, which was… odd. Wash used to fight with a knife on occasion, and he remembered them well enough to know that this was a real knife. O'Malley didn't dig it into his skin yet. "Are you okay? You seemed distressed earlier. We can't have you break too fast, now can we."

Wash said nothing. Not that he could. He tried to sit up straight, but swayed alarmingly instead. His head hurt.

"Now, I know what you're thinking.” As O’Malley said that, the knife pressed down and steel bit into his face, leaving a long line along the jaw. “'Oh, The Meta isn't here. I would have known.' Well, maybe. People change over the years. Maybe you just didn't recognise him out there in the light."

Wash knew O'Malley was playing him about that. It wasn't possible. That did not make the occasional growl behind him reassuring, though. Wash tried to still his hands. Tried to stop the trembling. It didn’t go well.

"But enough of that."

Some time passed. It was a blur of sudden pains as O'Malley went to work, carving whatever he wanted along Wash's other arm. Wash didn't know how he could find room around all the scar tissue that he'd left there twenty-five years ago.

Wash continued to shake. But he made no noise. He just shut his eyes, so he could pretend the darkness was voluntary, even as his brain shrieked 'let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT.'

Someone would realise he was missing.

"Waiting for rescue, Wash?" O'malley asked. He must have realised that Wash had to draw the strength to not completely lose it from something. Wash tried not to move. Though his fingers twitched as O'Malley started carving near the inside of his elbow.

He would not try and scream. He would not cry. He would not do anything to make O'Malley enjoy this more.

"Do you know how long you've been here?"

Wash tried not to react. But the amused tone in O'Malley's voice was not reassuring.

"Ten hours."

...Ten hours? No. There was no way. Even if... even if no-one had gone looking for him... someone would have noticed that he hadn't been walking his shifts, or hadn't returned his keys... someone would notice, even if it was just through a clerical error. Someone would have noticed. Doc, if no-one else, when Wash didn't show up to grab those cookies.

"Yes, you were out quite a while. It was unfortunate, really. It's no fun to torture you if you're asleep."

O'Malley was lying. It hadn't been ten hours. There... it couldn't...

The cutting went on. The shapes of letters and patterns that O'Malley enjoyed. And before O'Malley got bored enough to knock him out once more, he slashed his leg once.

"Keeping a calendar for you, Wash. Aren't I thoughtful?"

 

* * *

O'Malley wasn't there the third time Wash woke up. O’Malley’s fidgety pacing was gone, but movement could be heard behind him. He wasn’t growling, and his footsteps were too light. But Wash couldn't even turn around to try and see him. He wasn't sure if he could handle turning his head. The nausea bubbling in his stomach was downright crippling, more so than the now-wrapped gashes on his arms. The back of his head felt sticky.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly. Wash didn't move. Then that hand felt his throat. Not in a menacing way. More like the man was checking his pulse. Making sure he wasn't dead. Wash still flinched. He recalled, abruptly and vividly, the Meta pulling back on the bike lock around his neck that used to keep him in place.

The hand let go. There was a noise, one that sounded like the man had been about to talk but held it back at the last possible moment. Wash heard footsteps move around him.

Listening carefully to these footsteps, Wash finally noticed that there was a low humming in the room. He knew what that meant, deep down, but his mind couldn't put it into a coherent picture. There was a place that made this noise. But wherever it was, it wasn't somewhere he went often.

He had no more time to ponder it, because then the man kicked him in the chest. This time, there was a noise that wasn’t growling. A barely suppressed chuckle, not quite like O’Malley’s laugh. Quieter, shorter, but still every bit as malicious. Then there was another kick to the chest. 

He did it again. Again, again, again.

Wash couldn't breathe.

Sixth blow wasn’t a kick. The man punched him in the stomach this time. His stomach bubbled and Wash felt the bile rising and started thrashing, because he couldn't vomit. He had no room to get it out. He would die.

But the vomit came up anyway. Came up, hit the gag, couldn't go anywhere, went back down. Wash made a gurgling, choking noise. A second, higher-pitched noise of panic. One that, embarrassingly, could have been heard as a cry for help.

The other man touched Wash’s face, fingers skimming the edge of the tape. But he waited a few long, deliberate moments as Wash choked.

Finally, though, the tape was ripped off. Wash's face burned and blistered where the tape had been a split second ago, but he barely noticed. He just leaned forward as far as he could and heaved all over the floor. His throat still felt clogged and his breaths came out thick and bubbly.

But he could breathe. Just.

Wash felt relieved for a moment. Then he remembered his situation and wondered if maybe choking on his own vomit would have been the best, or at least quickest, way out.

He heard movement. He expected to get hit again, and instinctively tensed up. But instead he heard water splashing around. The man grabbed his face, fingers digging in painfully, and held a cup of water to his mouth.

Wash kept his mouth clamped shut. He remembered this game. Remembered O'Malley often spiking his water with salt, so that it would make his bloody gums feel like they were on fire. Or was that Gamma? Did it matter?

The bottle was removed, but Wash received a smack to the face. Nothing like the blows to his torso, but it made him feel like he was somersaulting. He nearly threw up again. Instead, a tirade of wet coughs happened. The man took the opportunity to stick a couple of fingers in and pry open Wash's jaw, pouring the water in. This was accompanied by a brief noise of disgust.

After the initial spluttering, Wash realised it was just regular water. He drank it without fuss after that. He felt less blocked up once he was done. He breathed in and out, no longer gurgling, before trying to speak. All that came out was a croaky noise that was not recognisable as words.

The man let go of his face for a moment to pick up something. He started wiping away the trails of vomit with damp cloth. The closest experience Wash had to this was when he was a kid and his mother would try to clean dirt off his face after he'd been mucking about outside. It felt degrading to have his tormentor do something that in any other context would be considerate.

Wash squirmed a little, but each tiny movement made his stomach turn. When the man had finished cleaning his face, he moved on to the sticky area at the back of Wash's head. When he was done, he gave Wash a patronizing pat on the top of the head, as if to say ‘what a good boy.’

Wash didn't need to be knocked out this time. He was pretty sleepy. He just passed out on his own.

 

* * *

Light.

Light?!

Wash could see light.

Light was the hospital. Light was street lamps. Light was the nightlights that York kept at his home for whenever Wash stayed there.

Light was safety.

Light was a flashlight being shone in his face.

"This was on your belt. Aw, did you need a nightlight, Wash? Even in the day? Pathetic."

Wash saw O'Malley's illuminated grin. The light was no longer a comfort.

"Twenty-three hours. In another hour, I'll get to mark the second day on your leg. How exciting."

Wash tried to speak, to tell him that was ridiculous. It wasn't twenty-three hours. Someone would have noticed. They would at least be obliged to look for him, even if they didn't want to. But he'd been gagged again. He could tell from the acrid taste in his mouth that they hadn’t replaced the vomit-soaked cloth.

He didn't hear the other man behind him. Maybe he could shift his chair enough to do... something. Anything. But he didn't move. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

O'Malley shone the light back into his face. Wash shut his eyes briefly against the glare.

"You know," O'Malley said conversationally. "You got off pretty lightly last time."

Wash opened his eyes and gave O'Malley a look that clearly said 'That's the dumbest claim ever. Of all time.'

"Don't look at me like that, Wash. You might not think it, but my little co-workers back there... well, let's say some of them were a bit squeamish. Others were kind of holier-than-thou for criminals, too. Thought they were too good for some of the things I came up with." 

O'Malley let out an angry huff of breath. 

"I mean, Alpha was always whining about how depraved the whole thing was. Not that he used those words. With his vocabulary it was a lot more sweary. And Delta... sure, he was on board with the torture after Carolina shot up his best friend. Kind of a pity about Sigma, really. The things that man could come up with... But Delta? 'Pace yourself.' 'That's for lesser criminals.' 'No, O'Malley, you can't do that. It's illogical.' He's the illogical one! It shouldn't matter what I'd do, as long as it made you scream one way or another."

He waved the flashlight around as he spoke, throwing strange shadows on the walls. 

"But really. I think it even did you good. I mean, you were just so... ugh. Getting taken out by paintballs? Sigma told me about that."

Wash went slightly pink. He would have scowled if he could. He hadn't heard about that incident in decades, but it still had the power to make him feel incredibly embarrassed.

"You were a wimp. Plain and simple. But now just look at you! All hardened up!" He slapped Wash on the shoulder like he was congratulating him. "See, you got out fine. Went all paranoid and violent, but I feel it's an improvement. Still a nuisance that everyone would like to see turn up dead in a ditch someday, but some things are just the laws of nature."

Wash just glared back at him. O'Malley smiled wider, placing the flashlight to the side. He left it on, so it still illuminated the room. He picked up his knife and edged closer. Until he was so close that Wash could smell his breath.

"But now? Alpha, Delta, Theta... they get no say over me. And I feel like a kid in a candy store."

 

* * *

Wash could no longer recall when he passed out and when he woke up. He remembered a lot of pain and losing a lot of blood. He remembered O'Malley slashing his leg twice. Three days? He remembered the return of the other man. O'Malley had turned the flashlight off again by then. Being back in the dark just made his confusion over whether he was awake or not even greater.

Sometimes he slipped halfway into dreams.

Carolina figured pretty prominently in them. He dreamt he was following her on some mission, and then Delta would appear and aim a gun at them, and in the dream Wash would grab Carolina's arm and pull her in front of him before the bullets hit.

Stupid dream, really. Even if he ever would have used Carolina as a human shield... well, she certainly wouldn't have allowed it. She probably would have broken every bone in his face.

Someone wrapped something around his head while he was sleeping. He didn't think much on it. It didn't hurt and it didn't help him sleep. So he didn't care.

Sometimes he would hear O'Malley chattering at him while he was dreaming. Sometimes the little stabs of pain snapped him out of it for just a moment, bringing him back into reality long enough for O'Malley to stab him somewhere. Then he'd drift off again.

Sometimes he forgot this wasn't the same imprisonment as the first time. Like the last twenty-five years of relative freedom had been a dream in itself. Like York and Doc only existed in his head. When he heard growling, his brain sometimes forgot it wasn't the Meta.

When O'Malley slashed his leg for the fourth time, Wash no longer had trouble believing how long it had been. Instead he was amazed that it had only been four days. It was starting to feel like several weeks.

He didn't think about how to get out. He didn't wonder if anyone was looking for him yet. He just kept waiting to drift off again. Hoping that this time there would be no dreams. That he could just sleep for a while.

"I'm sure you're wondering why this is happening."

O'Malley was wrong. Wash wasn't wondering at all. He didn't need to wonder about that, even if he did have the energy. O'Malley was a psychopath. He didn't need a reason. Besides... wasn't it about the Director? O'Malley wanted to know where the Director was? Or was that...

No. That was before. That was definitely... probably... before.

"It's your own fault, you know. You made me. I would have been perfectly happy letting you waste away on your own. But no. You had to touch what was mine."

Wash struggled to remember if he'd ever gone into O'Malley's cell and started messing about with his belongings. He couldn't think of another context in which it made sense. O'Malley didn't own anything. He rarely had money because he acted up too much and wasn't allowed to do any jobs around the prison like laundry or kitchen work, so he lacked the stamps to buy much. What would Wash need with commissary stamps, anyway?

"How rude can you get? I don't touch your one-eyed locksmith."

Wash did respond to that by attempting to kick at O'Malley. His legs were still tied to the chair, so he only succeeded in nearly toppling over. The other man grabbed the chair before he could. O'Malley just snickered.

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

"Mrgghhh," Wash snarled. He was still trying to piece together what O'Malley was talking about, but that mention of York had woken him up a bit.

O'Malley poked the front of his shirt with the knife. He'd almost entirely shredded the sleeves while working at Wash's arms. But the shirt itself was still on. Now, however, O'Malley slipped the knife underneath one of the buttons. With a little tug, he cut through. Then he moved onto the next. Each button held for a moment, then fell and hit the ground with a light clinking noise as O'Malley worked his way down.

"I think a lot of these scars healed too well," O'Malley sighed. He used the knife to push the shirt aside. Then the flashlight was back on. O'Malley shone it at his torso. He put the knife down before reaching forward and tracing each scar he saw with his fingers. It made Wash's skin crawl. "I should have done them better. Infected them just a little, perhaps? That would have looked interesting.

"But, hmm..." O'Malley pressed a palm to the area over Wash's heart. "I never marked you here. I was saving it, you see. For the finale. But that little runt, Epsilon... just had to ruin it, didn't he? I don't think we'll be hanging out much after this, though."

O'Malley picked up the knife again, pointing the flashlight squarely at the centre of Wash's chest. Then he dug the knife deep into the skin. Deeper than usual. Wash couldn't hold back the occasional whimper. Every muscle in his body tightened up as he tried to shut out the pain. O'Malley dragged the knife slowly and it slid through his flesh like it was butter.

After what felt like a long time, O'Malley snickered and put the knife down again. "Now you both match."

Wash didn't look down. He shut his eyes, trying to think through the fog that filled his head. Matched with who? York? O'Malley had brought up York, but... no. O'Malley had only ever tormented York because of his connection with Wash. Which meant this wasn't about Wash, either. If he'd wanted to torture Wash, he would have gone after York or...

Or...

It clicked into place.

"Dhh?" That was the closest to 'Doc' that Wash could make through the gag.

There was a moment of silence, then a brief and bitter chuckle. “Clever boy.”

O'Malley put down the flashlight, freeing up one of his hands while the other held the knife, and slammed the handle against Wash's stomach. No air. Wash might have thrown up again if he had anything left to vomit. He just coughed uncontrollably. But then O'Malley started slashing at him. Not carefully, like he had before. Just swiping the knife at him, leaving gouges wherever it came into contact.

O'Malley still laughed, but it was high-pitched and strained. Between that mad giggling, he spoke. Every word had waves of fury radiating off it.

"You thought you could take away what's mine? You can't! You can't do that! He can't do that! And after this, he'll know what happens when he tries to wander from me!"

Slash. Slash. Rivers sluggishly trickling down Wash's arms and legs, with heavier ones dripping down his chest. Lots of pain. Too much. Maybe that was what made Wash pass out again, even as O'Malley hissed threats and angry claims at him.

 

* * *

Wash was sitting at a bar. It was a bar he knew. The one that he visited with York and, as of the last few years, Doc. It wasn't a fancy place. And it seemed even dimmer than usual. There was only one working light, and it kept flickering. Whenever it turned off for just a second too long, Wash's heart skipped a beat.   


"Hey. Hey, Wash. You want a Mai Tai? Should I ask for one of the ones with those weird twirly straws you like?"

Wash turned to see York grinning at him, rocking back and forth on his feet. Wash didn't say anything, but York talked like he'd replied.

"Nothing wrong with those straws, Wash. I'm not making fun of you. Everyone has their little piece of five-year-old in them."

Wash made a face back at him. York laughed and leaned to the side.

"How about you, Doc?"

"Um... do they have herbal tea?" Doc was sitting on Wash's other side, looking slightly uncomfortable in these surroundings.

"Herbal tea?" York shook his head. "Look, I asked last time. They laughed me away, so that means no. Come on, have a drink."

"Oh, no, I'm okay."

"Come on, Doc! You can have one of the girly ones! Look at this list of cocktails!" York shoved a menu in Doc's face. "Look at all the options. Last Tango? Blue-Tini? A Mango Madness? A Razzjito? Razzjitos are so good, and I’m not just talking about the name here. You could get a Mai Tai like Wash."

"York, noooo... I don't want to be offensive to alcoholics..."

"But you're in our natural habitat, not drinking is way more offensive."

Doc squinted at the menu, then pointed at one of them and said, "Can't they give me that with no alcohol? If it's not too much trouble?"

"One day I'm going to fix you. But sure, I'll ask." York gave Doc a friendly shove before trotting off to find drinks, dissolving into the shadows as he did so.

Doc propped his chin on his hand, leaning against the bar and looking around. Wash couldn't see what he was looking at, because the walls were too dim.

"I haven't visited bars this much since college," Doc mused.

"I'm amazed you have at all," Wash muttered.

"You'd be surprised. College was crazy! Didn't last long, but it was nuts." Then Doc said, in a very different voice, "Don't fall asleep! You think you can just block this out? You think I'll let you?"

Wash's chest really hurt. Wash looked down and saw that he was trailing blood all over the bar floor. He shut his eyes. No. He wanted to stay here. He was at the bar and everything was okay.

"Wash?" Doc again. Regular Doc. "You look kind of sick. Are you alright? Do you want me to drive you back? I'm sure York won't mind—" And then it was interrupted by O'Malley's voice again. "Wake up! Wake up now, or I'll stab you in the gut and you'll be allowed to sleep all you want!"

No, he didn’t want—

Wash opened his eyes again, and for a moment everything was even darker, lit only by a flashlight. For a moment, reality blurred into the dream and he saw Doc with an insane, wolfish smile and mad eyes. Then the dream slipped out of Wash's fingers and O'Malley was standing in front of him again.

He really wanted to return to the dream. Return there and be allowed to believe it was reality. That would mean he was crazy, but it was one of those rare times where insanity was preferable.

"No, no, no. You can't just ignore this, Wash. I don't like being ignored." O'Malley turned the flashlight off again, before grabbing Wash by the neck. "After this, I don't want you talking to Doc again. Do you understand? Really, I should just kill you now. Do you know the reason I don't?"

Wash said nothing. Instead, he tried to lunge forward. Didn't matter that he couldn't move his limbs. Didn't matter that trying to do so just made the grip around his throat tighter. Didn't matter that it made his head lurch and his stomach churn.

"Half of it is a lesson. After all, isn't a living reminder of what Doc risks every time he defies me so much stronger than a corpse? But I suppose the other half is gratitude. Because I am very grateful to you."

O'Malley sauntered closer. He kept one hand around Wash's throat. The other hand slid along his chest, skimming the shape carved over Wash's heart, rubbing his stomach. Going down. Not stopping. With a short laugh, O'Malley quickly cupped the front of Wash's pants.

Wash froze. He went entirely rigid for a moment, before throwing himself backwards in an attempt to shift the chair away. To put space between himself and O'Malley. Because he'd at least faced scars and being cut up before, for much longer than this. But what O'Malley was doing now? It was not something he knew.

"You feel that, Washington?" 

Wash felt hot, uncomfortable breath on the side of his face. There was a sharp bite on his ear. Wash shook his head and felt another lurch. 

"You don't like it, do you?" 

Another bite, lower down the neck.

"Well. Doc never liked it either. At least, he said he didn't. Personally, I think he likes it deep down. Sometimes his hips give him away. Sometimes his mouth does. All that writhing, all the noises he makes. I doubt you could make him moan and scream like I can, Washington."

All the burning fury inside him suddenly went ice cold.

Wash had known that O'Malley pestered Doc sometimes. Attacked him on occasion. Knew O’Malley acted up even worse if Doc wasn’t around. But O'Malley attacked people all the time, and Wash had assumed... he'd assumed because Doc never showed any sign of injury that he was fine. That because he didn’t wander the halls on patrol that he was safer. That O’Malley couldn’t truly damage someone if they were in the light.

"Doc tried to leave, Washington. He tried to escape me. And you brought him back."

O'Malley stopped biting at Wash, though he still hadn't moved the hand gripping his crotch. O'Malley let out a short giggle.

"So. I'm not killing you. Because without you, I would no longer have Doc at all. Thank you."

Wash stopped struggling. Only a moment after he stopped, O'Malley let go of him. Perhaps out of his bizarre gratitude, O'Malley didn't touch him again. Not in the way he did to... to...

The torture continued. But Wash didn't react to anything they did. He didn’t try to move away. He didn’t fight. And eventually, he faded back into unconsciousness.

This time, he didn't dream at all.

 

* * *

"He's boring, now. He's not reacting or trying to act tough or anything fun," O'Malley complained, turning the lights back on. He glared at Wash critically as Felix sat in the corner, watching Wash with an expression of mild disappointment.

By this point, Wash seemed to be drenched in blood. Felix had cleaned his face up a little and bandaged the head wound he’d gained from being knocked out repeatedly, but otherwise blood had been allowed to trickle to the floor in small but steady streams.

“I think you were really going somewhere with that last part. Working up to your point. Can’t believe you stopped there,” Felix said. “What kind of asshole does torture by half-measures?”

“Half-measures?” O’Malley muttered, offended.

“What? Just grabbing someone’s dick is light. Who hasn’t had their dick grabbed before? Didn’t even remove the pants.” 

Felix paced. He was playing with the bloodsoaked knife as he did so. He stopped in front of Wash, knelt slightly and pointed at Wash’s eyes, before turning and gesturing where he’d be staring were he awake.

“What you should have done was brought your boyfriend down here while Blondie was still awake. Fucked him right there as a first-hand demonstration. Made them keep eye contact with each other the entire time. If Wash averted his eyes, carve bits out of Doc. And vice versa.” Felix balanced the knife blade on his finger, grinning lazily. “They’d have that shit seared onto their eyeballs for life.”

“As fun as that sounds… when you get to my age, you’ll realise that sometimes less is more.”

“Can’t get consistent boners, huh?”

O’Malley didn’t dignify that with an answer. “The guards will start looking for him soon enough.” O'Malley grinned at the gashes in Wash's leg and laughed. "'Five days.'"

Knocking Wash out regularly and claiming huge spans of time had passed was something Felix had come up with. The kid was a little irritating, but his ideas were inspired. It was apparently something he used to do when he didn't have much time but wanted someone to think they'd gotten ‘the full experience.’

It did, unfortunately, come with a large risk of concussions and brain damage. O'Malley checked Wash's eyes properly now that they were in the light again. No pupils were blown, at least. But no doubt there was some damage. Hopefully he'd live through it. It was no fun if no-one got to see the after effects.

O’Malley stretched his arms out, grinning. "Well, I'm going to inform Doc of the situation! You know what to do. Clean this mess up. Stay until—"

"I know, dude. You only went over it a bazillion times. God, can you talk. I mean, I getcha. Talking is amazing. Can’t believe that all you let me do was growl.”

“The growling could have been better.”

“You know what also could have been better? Words. A puppy can growl. Big deal. Besides, it was supposed to be torture for him. Not for me.”

"I don't pay you to complain."

"You don't pay me at all!"

"Oh, shut up."

 

* * *

"Caboose. I'd love to help. I really would," Doc sighed. "But this is entirely out of my jurisdiction."

"But you have to help! You are the talky-feelings man!" Caboose protested as Doc tried to shuffle him out of his office.

"I'm a talky-feelings man for humans. Not dogs. I'm sure Freckles is a lovely dog, really, but I don't speak the language of dogs."

"I do! I can translate! Freckles is very concerned about a number of topics that confuse him. He wishes to know why there are not enough dog toys for him, whether he could get more yard time and he also wishes to know how babies are made. ...I lied. I want to know the last one but Donut's explanation was confusing. It involved a lot of hotdogs."

"Well, the first two sound like wage and benefit problems. You should go see the warden about that."

"Okay!"

Doc felt a bit guilty as he closed the door behind Caboose. Sometimes he was just a bit of a handful to deal with, and he felt particularly bad for sending him to Niner. But she had more chance at helping him with the 'yard time' problem.

He checked his watch. Just after lunch. Whoops, had it been that long? He still owed Wash those cookies. He'd been too busy with patients to even notice the time. 

It'd been a pretty good day so far. He'd got one inmate to talk about his family, and people opening up to him was always a good feeling.

Doc whistled and shuffled about the office, straightening his posters and tidying up. He heard the door squeak behind him, and had barely turned around when O'Malley punched him in the stomach. Doc doubled over, flailing his arms and trying to shield himself but not really knowing how. He didn't get punched much, especially not so abruptly.

"Wait, O'Malley! S-stop that, you'll... you'll get in trouble, you won't be able to visit in SHU! What are—we don't even have an appointment, if you—" Doc babbled. Still too surprised to have his priorities entirely in order.

"Shut up, Doc." O'Malley grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall. "This conversation is long overdue!"

"O'Malley—" Doc got cut off by a sharp blow to his face.

"Not while I'm talking!" O'Malley breathed heavy for a moment. Doc's eyes flickered downwards. O'Malley's hands had blood on them.

"...Oh no. Wha—" Another blow to the face. This time it split Doc's lip. Doc let out a little yelp or scream each time O'Malley hit him. This was unusual. He didn't understand it. Yeah, O'Malley was cruel. Cruel and rough and sometimes Doc had to scrub himself for hours to get O’Malley’s stink off him.

But O'Malley rarely hit him. And never several times in a row like this.

"I'm in control. I'm in control and you're not allowed to speak!" O'Malley hissed.

Doc went quiet.

"Doc. Do you know why I'm not happy with you?"

Doc shook his head. Although already panic was starting to seize his stomach.  


"Really? You don't want to wrack your brain thinking about it?"

"I don't know! I really don—" This time, O'Malley clipped the edge of his eye.

"I'm talking about you fraternising with that paranoid lump of scar tissue. I don't like it. You're meant to belong to me, and that means you can't belong to anyone else."

"That's not a nice way to talk about Wash..."  


"So you do know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"He was a patient. I was comforting him. Are you saying I can't do my... my..." Doc looked at the blood again. All colour drained from his face. "...What have you done to him?"

"Maybe I'll tell you. Maybe I won't."

"Tell me what you did to him!"

"If you keep talking back to me I will throttle the life out of you!" O'Malley grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall again. "I will watch you turn blue. I will watch you choke for air until the last bit of life leaves your body. Don't think I won't do it, Doc."

"You won't," Doc choked out. "You'd get bored."

O'Malley looked taken aback for a moment, then rage filled his face. He slammed Doc against the wall again and shouted, "I have the power here! Don't talk back to me! I said don't talk back to me! I'm trying to talk to you reasonably and you just. Keep. Talking!"

The door slammed open behind O'Malley. O'Malley turned in time to see South grab him, twisting an arm behind his back.

"What the fuck are you up to now, asshole?" South dragged him away from Doc. "Jeez, I turn up to tell you one of the whiners in SHU is asking for therapy and suddenly there's psychos coming out the walls. Lock your door, Doc. Seriously."

Doc rubbed his throat for a moment, coughing, before looking at South. "Locks aren't for receptive offices and... that's not important... South, I... I think he's done something to Wash. Where's Wash?"

"Wash?” There was a flicker of concern across South’s face, although it was immediately replaced with frustration. “How should I know? That dickweed never talks to me."

"You don't know where—"

"He kept switching his shifts or something, I don't keep track."

O'Malley started laughing maniacally. "He's here. He's where I left him and I'd daresay the clock is ticking down. He didn't look too—"

"I will kick you in the balls, I swear to god," South muttered.

Doc rounded on O’Malley. For once, the fear of O’Malley hurting him had completely evaporated, and not just because South was holding him still. A greater fear had replaced it, but with that fear came anger. Doc couldn’t remember the last time he was angry.

“O’Malley, if you don’t tell me where he is…” Doc took a deep breath, glaring straight at O’Malley. “I’ll go to the warden and order her to transfer you to another prison. No… not a prison. A hospital. A hospital that will keep you on sedation twenty-four hours a day.”

He took a step closer to O’Malley. O’Malley wasn’t grinning now, only watching Doc silently.

“You won’t even realise where you are,” Doc said quietly, his voice shaking. “You won’t know who you are. And you will die not knowing anything but a dull, drugged haze. It’ll be painless. And boring.” Doc’s remaining calm broke, and his next sentence came out as an angry, high-pitched shout. “So tell me where he is or I swear, O’Malley, regret will be the last coherent thought you ever experience!” 

O’Malley blinked. He met Doc’s gaze for a moment. Then a smile--not his usual grin, but the amused smile of someone who knows it won’t work out but appreciates the effort--crossed his face.

“Oh, Doc. You only got away with sedating me so often before because of Sarge’s negligence. Transferring me to a real hospital? One where they follow laws? Do you think I don’t know the rules? I was a surgeon!” That smile widened a little more. “But it’s nice to know you have the capacity to threaten, after all.”

Doc said nothing. But his face flushed angrily, and he continued to stare O’Malley down. O’Malley looked down and let out a small chuckle.

“Why don’t you just call him and let him tell you where he is himself?”

 

* * *

How sad. Wash’s phone only had two contacts on it. 

Felix looked down at the contacts before looking back at Wash. Wash hadn’t moved. Felix hoped he wasn’t dead. That’d be so anticlimactic, and would mean that Felix had stayed silent during the torture for nothing. He’d had so many comebacks and taunts lined up, too. Felix turned back to the phone, opening the message history and idly scrolling through the mass of blurry, impromptu cat pictures that comprised most of Wash and Doc’s texting history.

He heard a door slam open in the distance, then footsteps, then the door leading into the room flew open. Locus stood there. He looked at Felix, then he looked at Wash. Locus’ eyes widened, then narrowed, then he stared at Felix again.

“What have you done, Felix?”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I saw O’Malley leave here. I know what he wanted, and I knew you weren’t following your normal routine. What were you thinking?!” Locus gestured at Wash. “Him? You…” Locus lowered his voice. “You know who he is. You know our orders.”

“Casualty. They won’t care as long as it gets proper results,” Felix said confidently.

“We had a plan.”

“Yeah, well, that plan was slow garbage and I’m getting bored. I’m changing the plan. And I’ve started with him, because that’s where the opportunity was.”

Locus scowled and opened his mouth, no doubt to tell Felix something boring and job-obsessed. But he was interrupted by the phone ringing. Felix rolled his eyes at the ringtone. The default one that came with basically every mobile ever. No personality at all. Felix answered it, but didn’t speak. He just heard Doc’s near-hysterical voice.

"Wash? Wash, are you okay? Where are you?"

Felix said nothing, then prodded Wash with his foot. No response. But he was breathing. Locus didn’t say anything either, but he leaned down to gaze at Felix’s work. The irritation was still on his face, but it was mixed with curiosity.

“Wash? Wash?!”

Felix placed the phone in Wash’s lap, then signaled to Locus that they should get the fuck out of there. Locus didn’t immediately respond, still examining Wash. Looking at the old scars mixed with fresh red. His hand seemed a little twitchy, like he wanted to reach out and touch the wounds. Then he turned and left. Felix followed him.

It wasn’t until they were far from the room that Locus spoke.

“Did he know who you were?”

“I didn’t even speak. Maybe I laughed a little, but y’know. I’m only human.”

Locus considered this for a moment before saying, “I suppose I should be thankful you didn’t take complete leave of your senses.”

“Relax, robot. I know that processor of yours is obsessed with doing the job right, but--”

“It isn’t that,” Locus interrupted him. “I just have doubts that any man with that many scars can be broken in a few hours. Cracked, maybe. But not shattered. And a cracked weapon can always be fixed enough to last one more fight.”

“...Right. Whatever that means.” Felix grasped Locus’ wrist, pulling him to a stop, before placing the bloodstained knife in his hand. “Here.”

“This is evidence, Felix.”

“And it’s evidence I want back. You know how much I had to bargain to get that? But you’re right. Evidence.” Felix grinned wider and dropped a piece of paper on top of it. “And that’s also evidence.”

Locus opened the piece of paper, scanned it briefly. “...Oh. I see.”

“Clever, right?”

The way the corner of Locus’ mouth twisted and that thoughtful look that passed his face meant that he thought it was, but that he didn’t want to say it. “Against our orders.”

“For now. But when this is all over, you just know he’ll claim it was his idea all along.”

 

* * *

"Wash? Wash?!"

Doc heard nothing except a low, mechanical hum. The fear in his stomach tripled.

"He's not replying," he told South. O'Malley giggled, bouncing around on his feet. "He's... I think someone must have answered the phone, but all I hear is—"

"Gimme." South snatched the phone from him and held it to her ear. She frowned for a few moments. Then her eyes widened slightly. "Oh shit."

"What?"

“He’s in the electrical room. Y’know, same area that Andy blew up a decade ago to cause a blackout. Dunno how they got in there, Wash doesn’t even have the keys anymore--” 

“Do you have the keys?”

“Well, yeah--”

“Give me the keys, then tell Sheila that I’m gonna need help right away. I’ll go and make sure he’s okay, but I… I think he’s going to need an ambulance, just…”

“Hold on. If you go down there without muscle, and there’s some other asshole waiting for you, you’re just gonna end up getting knocked out,” South protested. “And if you do that while holding my keys, I’m the one that’s going to catch heat if they--”

“South, there’s no time! He needs a doctor! I know I’m not that, but… I’m all he’s got, please! Just let me help him, don’t do this to him again!”

South’s eyebrows scrunched together and she gave Doc a wary look for a moment. Then she sighed.

“...Yeah, alright.” She unclipped the keys from her belt and threw them at Doc. “Don’t lose them--”

Doc took off at a run. O'Malley's laughter followed him as he ran.

The electrical room thankfully wasn't too far. It would have been even quicker to find if Doc had remembered it's exact location right off the bat, but he'd never been in there before. There'd never been a need. 

Doc unlocked the door and sprinted through. He followed the short passageway that led to the electrical room, and shoved open the next door to the sound of electrical humming. Most of the room was filled with machinery. Generators. The sorts of things that York would have described as ‘important-looking.’ There were still faded scorch marks on some of the walls from Andy’s mess a decade ago.

And in the little space available, there was Wash. Tied to a chair. Gagged. Covered in blood. Unconscious.

"Wash? Wash, come on... come on, I've got you, wake up..." 

Doc started undoing the gag first. He tried to balance the urge to rip the stuff off as fast as possible with the need to do it carefully, so that he wouldn't rip Wash's skin off with it. Upon slowly and carefully peeling it off, he saw that it had already been ripped off once. Wash's skin was red and blistered in a long line where the tape had been.

Once the gag was off, Doc cupped Wash's face, trying to gently wake him up. It had no effect. Wash’s head just flopped down uselessly when Doc let go. There was a thin slice of red along Wash’s jaw. It was in a similar spot to where Doc had a faint, barely noticeable scar that O’Malley had left behind. It wasn’t the only place covered in blood.

"Wash, you're safe, please... please, Wash! Wake up!"

He started on the industrial tape keeping him bound to the chair. All the while talking to Wash in a quiet, desperate tone. Telling him it was safe. Pleading for him to wake up. Over and over. Doc tried to keep his voice steady, like he was in control and nothing bad was going to happen, despite the fact that tears were soaking his cheeks.

"It's okay, Wash. An ambulance is coming. You’ll be alright," Doc murmured as he removed the tape around Wash's left leg. It was difficult. Too slippery. That leg was one of the most bloody areas, with five long, deep lacerations. Four of them were lined up neatly, and the fifth had been slashed across all of them. A tally, but for what? The bandage around Wash's head was bloody as well, but it looked like it had been changed. Doc was surprised they'd even bothered. 

There was blood almost everywhere. The freshest was coming from the chest, soaking what remained of Wash’s shredded shirt.

Doc removed his jacket and wadded it up so he had something to stop the bleeding with, although the leg looked like it had stopped for the most part already. He pushed away the shredded shirt so he could figure out where the blood was coming from.

His breath caught in his throat when he made out the design underneath the blood. O'Malley had carved a scar identical to Doc's own. Doc shut his eyes, swallowing air and trying not to pass out even as the coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils.

O’Malley did this because of him.

As soon as that thought occurred, however, the rage that had led him to threaten O’Malley bubbled over, and with that anger came clarity.

No. No, it wasn’t Doc. A lot of things had been Doc’s fault in the past. His entire medical career, for starters. But this? This wasn’t Doc’s fault. It happened because O’Malley was a monster without a shred of human decency. It was his fault, and his fault alone. That… that... twisted, monstrous fu--

Wash twitched a little.

"Wash? Wash, can you hear me? Please wake up. Come on, Wash. Wash?"

Wash opened his eyes. Very slowly. They kept shutting again. It looked like a lot of effort. But he'd moved. He'd opened his eyes. He wasn't dead. Doc wrapped one arm around him, pressing his face into Wash's shoulder.

"Wash... you're alive. You're really... I was starting to think..." Doc babbled. He was crying harder now, this time partially out of relief. And partially because there was this twisted anger in his stomach that was almost entirely unknown to him. He had too many emotions, and so he kept crying. "Help's on the way, Wash, I'm... I'm sorry, I didn't know you were down here until..."

Wash lifted his head a little, still blinking heavily as he gazed at Doc. His eyes seemed unfocused. He didn't protest about Doc hugging him. He barely reacted to it, except with mild confusion.

Wash reached out slowly. His hand was shaking. He pressed his palm to Doc's chest. Right where the matching scar was.

Wash's palm grazed the scar tissue and Doc knew he felt it, even through the shirt. Wash stared at where he was pressing, then he looked at Doc's face. Looked at the cut lip and the scrape along Doc's cheek that O'Malley had just inflicted.

Then Wash withdrew his hand. He tried speaking. What came out was incomprehensible, but Wash's tone made it sound important. He started babbling as much as Doc had been, the difference being it wasn't understandable. Doc desperately hoped that it was only temporary, feared that something in his brain had been knocked loose.

"Shh, shh, Wash... don't worry about it now, okay?" Doc tried to say soothingly, even though it was hard to say anything soothingly while sobbing. Wash tried to get to his feet. "No, no, no, stay there. Sit. Help's going to—Wash, stop trying to get up!" 

Wash attempted again, despite Doc trying to gently push him down again, and nearly collapsed. Doc caught him in time and managed to put him back on the seat.

"Wash... you have to stay, okay? You can... you can do things when you recover. You'll recover. You will. Just try to stay awake."

Wash swayed a little before grabbing weakly at Doc's upper arm, leaning against his side slightly. He mumbled something, blinking tiredly again.

"Stay awake."

Wash made a noise. It sounded like he was trying to say yes.

Doc stayed there, trying to mop up the wounds and keep Wash awake. He stopped crying after a while. Because the more he stared at the wounds, the more he thought about O'Malley. And the more he thought about O'Malley, the more relief and sadness in him turned into black, ugly hate.

 

* * *

It didn’t take a genius to realise that something serious had happened.

Lockdowns had happened before. Usually after a riot or any fight that involved a group of inmates. They were rare. In that aspect, Valhalla was pretty well-behaved. Or at least too lazy to really consider any proper gang fights. This time, however… no-one had seen what caused the fight. No-one had heard it, either. They were just all shuffled off to their cells right after lunch.

Donut pressed his face against the bars of his cell, watching the guards pace past. A lot of them appeared unusually serious, rather than simply bored. Some seemed worried. Some angry. It was scrawled all over their faces.

When York passed by Donut’s cell, Donut tried to speak to him. Normally, York was happy to tell Donut almost anything. Even information Donut wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps because of that incident with the zealots a decade ago. Donut, admittedly, had leveraged that on occasion to learn things he shouldn’t.

This time, York just ignored him. His face was white and tight-lipped. Donut had never seen York look so worried, even after he’d been stabbed in the leg.

They waited. They waited for the rest of the day. The guards had only ordered them back, role called them and then left them to stir.

“Ladurée?” Caboose approached and pressed his face to the bars as well, watching the guards as Donut did. “Why are they so angry?”

“No idea.”

“It’s obvious, dude,” Grif said. Donut could see his hands poking out of the bars next door. Fingers on one hand drumming on the metal. Next to them, he could see Lopez’s hands. “You remember Phil?”

“Oh,” Caboose said. He watched the guards for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Ohhhh. I know why they are angry.”

“I wasn’t there for that,” Donut said.

“ _ Neither was I _ ,” Lopez said.

“Well, Phil got killed during a riot in the cafeteria, remember? I told you about that, Donut. It’s only news to Lopez here, and fuck knows if he can understand me.”

“ _ I understand you. You’re the one who’s clueless, _ ” Lopez muttered.

“I remember you telling me.” Donut glanced at Caboose, who looked rather uncomfortable, before focusing back on Grif. “What’s that have to do with this?”

“I didn’t tell you about what happened afterwards. About how the guards retaliated,” Grif said. One of his hands withdrew out of sight as Grif gnawed on one of his fingernails for a moment. Eventually he continued. “You know the rules here. Fuck with one member of a crew, and the rest of the crew has to back them up. Well, the guards? The guards are the biggest, baddest gang in this prison, and no-one’ll say a damn thing if they get out of line. And someone just attacked one of their own.”

“It was very angry,” Caboose said. He hesitated before saying, “None of them hit me at all. They said I had to be very specific about that.” He lowered his voice. “They knew. They knew I… did the bad thing.”

“Well, they guessed,” Grif said. “But every inmate in the line of fire got it hard for the next month. Actions that would have gotten one whack or a short stay in the cells turned into beatdowns and ‘forgetting’ to feed us. And Phil wasn’t even well-liked.” He sighed. “Guards are fucking nasty.”

Donut looked at York pacing in the distance. It clicked.

“It’s Wash. Whatever it was, it happened to Wash,” Donut said. “You think he’s dead?”

Grif peered over at York. He considered this for a long moment.

“Nah. I think he’s still alive.” Grif let out a heavy sigh. “People don’t look worried if the worst has already happened, you know? Probably for the best. Wash is a prick, but he’s basically part of the architecture by now. If he died...” Grif shuddered. “Jesus. It would not be pretty.”

 

* * *

Flowers arrived outside of Niner’s office to find South there, waiting outside. Immediately upon seeing her, Flowers made a beeline for her and held out one of the coffees he’d been precariously balancing in his hands.

“Coffee, South?”

South gave Flowers an annoyed look. “You trying to dad me?”

“Is that a no?”

“...No. Gimme.” South took the offered mug, taking a long swig of it. She looked into the mug after. “Damn, that’s actually really good.”

“Well, you make coffee for your co-workers for thirty years and you have to get good at it eventually,” Flowers said. He glanced at the door, and the smile that was ever-present on his face lessened. “Who’s in there now?”

“Niner’s questioning Doc.”

Flowers looked down at his collection of mugs, trying to shuffle them in his arms. “I have a herbal tea for him in here somewhere.”

“Do you just have a catalog of what everyone drinks? Jesus Christ, I know I already said the dad thing but you’re more like that over-friendly baking grandma.”

Flowers chuckled, settling down to wait next to South. “How are you holding up, South?”

South shrugged. “It’s not like it's the first time shit has happened to Wash.”

“True. True…” Flowers spoke in a gentle but serious tone. “South… I need you to be honest with me. You saw what happened to Wash. You know him better than I do.”

“I mean, we did a few jobs together and then… look, it’s not really a solid friendship, Caps.”

“Furthermore,” Flowers continued, ignoring South’s retort, “You know O’Malley better than I do. I never met him in the field. That was after my time. So, answer me truthfully. ...Do you think this was a random attack? Or was it something else?”

South did not meet Flowers’ eyes for a few moments, choosing instead to focus on her own coffee. She sipped, longer than necessary, before speaking.

“O’Malley doesn’t need a reason. He’s always been a prick,” she muttered.

“You don’t… know anything at all?”

“No,” South said, in a perfectly casual tone that sounded rehearsed and fake.

Flowers eyed her for a long, calculating moment before turning away. “I see. In that case, we shouldn’t have any trouble keeping things under control,” Flowers said pleasantly.

“Sure. It’ll be easy,” South grumbled. “Also, pigs will fly, Hell will freeze over and I’ll be announcing an engagement to Wash tomorrow.”

“Oh, congratulations!”

“You’re an idiot.”

 

* * *

Doc had proved impossible to talk with immediately after Wash had been taken away. Niner had tried, but Doc had been difficult to console. He couldn’t focus on anything but Wash. Niner supposed that was reasonable. But she needed his testimony. She needed something, and he was the closest to a witness she had. Apart from O’Malley, but O’Malley was impossible to talk to and untrustworthy at best.

Thankfully, the hospital had called her about Wash’s condition soon after the ambulance took him away.

“Is he okay?” were Doc’s first words once Niner hung up the phone.

“As okay as he can be, considering the circumstances,” Niner said slowly. “He’s in bad shape. Lost a lot of blood. But most of his wounds are shallow enough to treat easily, so provided he suffers no complications he should be fi--” 

Niner stopped. She couldn’t truthfully say Wash would be fine. The hospital had noted the possibility of brain damage. She didn’t want to be the one to tell Doc. She needed him not to be in hysterics.

“He’ll live,” Niner finished. “Are you ready to discuss this now?”

Doc stared at the small model of a helicopter that Niner had on her desk. His hands were hidden from view, but Niner could see angry trembling in his arms. Doc stared at the helicopter like it had done him a personal wrong. But eventually he nodded.

“First of all… are you alright?” Niner asked, eyes lingering on the scraped cheek, cut lip and the black eye blossoming on Doc’s face.

“I’m fine,” Doc said shortly.

“Doc, just because you’re not the one in hospital--”

“I said I'm fine!” Doc snapped. Then he shut his eyes, looking down again. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“It’s alright. This is some stressful shit.” Niner laced her fingers together, leaning forward. “Doc… do you know why he headed straight for you after he was done with Wash?”

Doc averted his eyes. “No.”

Niner let the silence hang for a few moments, watching Doc shift uncomfortably. “It’s not the first time O’Malley’s bothered you.”

“What?” Doc looked up, looking pale. “Nothing happened! Why would you… what gave you that idea?”

Niner pulled forward a file sitting on her desk. “I checked O’Malley’s files. Apparently he tried to force-feed you his medication fifteen years ago.”

“...Oh. Oh, that,” Doc said faintly. “I forgot about that. It only happened once.”

“I also noticed that you have a disproportionate amount of time spent with him compared to other inmates. Especially…” Niner pulled out a sheaf of paper. “Two years ago, Kimball requested to interview him for one of her programs, and you were very against it. Kept saying that you had it under control.”

“I did,” Doc said quietly. “I… I do.”

“If this is under control, I’d hate to see him out of control.” Niner put down the sheaf of paper. “Doc, I’m not accusing you of being responsible for what happened today. But I think you know more about why it happened than you’re letting on. If there’s anything you can tell me, anything that I can pass on to his next guards--”

“Next guards?”

“I’m transferring him. Ideally to a supermax, but barring that I’m sure I can foist him on some other prison. Valhalla is done accommodating him,” Niner said. “He won’t be attacking you a third time.”

Doc was now staring at a model plane that Niner had put next to the helicopter. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before saying, “He’ll hurt other people.”

“They’ll be warned. They can take care of it,” Niner said. “Doc, be reasonable here. Do you really think there’s anything you can do for him?”

“No-one can do anything for him,” Doc said quietly. “O’Malley will never change.”

“Then the best we can do is put him somewhere where the damage’ll be contained.” Niner picked up her pen, pulling some paperwork towards her. “Concentrate on patients that you can actually help, Doc. That’s your job. And my job is to protect the people within this prison. Do your job, and let me do mine. Alright?”

Doc didn’t look up. His expression was pale and tight-lipped as he stared at that model plane. “Fine.”

“Good.” Niner watched him for a moment longer. “Are you alright to come in tomorrow? Do you need time off? The rest of the day is fine, but if you need more--”

“I don’t like taking days off. I’ll come in tomorrow,” Doc said.

“Okay. Go home. Get some rest, Doc.”


	8. Chapter Eight: Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise following the incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part won't be for two weeks because I am behind. It'll be a flashback, as will be the two after that.

The lockdown ended the next morning. The tension was so thick that a knife could have cut it.

Donut peered through the bars of his cell as the inmates filed by, heading to the cafeteria for a somewhat delayed breakfast. There were some grumpy, sleepy mumbling but nothing beyond the usual. The guards, however, were tense. Donut could see inmates being stopped much more than usual, being pat down for weapons at random. Occasionally there was a louder grumble from an inmate, and the response was a sharp comment or a violent shove from whatever guard was checking them.

The words ‘don’t push your luck’ were never said, but they could sure be felt.

Caboose pressed his face against the bars, watching as well.

“...I think I want to wait here for a while, Petit Four,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Me too, buddy.”

They settled in to wait for the crowd to thin out, but then came a loud bark followed by yelling.

“Freckles! Freckles, no! Stay! Sit! Stop it!”

Caboose perked up immediately, stepping out of the cell and turning towards the noise. The source was Freckles bulldozing several inmates over to charge towards Caboose. Tailing behind him was Ohio, who had a firm grip on his leash but was failing to slow down Freckles’ movement, instead being forced to run to avoid falling over.

“Freckles!” Caboose said happily, reaching down to ruffle his fur. “Who’s a good dog?”

“No! No! Freckles is not a good dog, he’s a bad dog!” Ohio yelled, breathless from the exertion of trying to get Freckles to behave. “He’s… he’s…”

She tailed off, now watching Caboose with a frown as he lavished attention on Freckles. As she did, the sound of footsteps and huffing reached their ears.

“Excuse me, coming through--oh, there you are. That dog moves fast, O!” Idaho appeared next to her before doubling over to regain his breath. Iowa appeared on Ohio’s other side, out of breath but not as dramatically so. “Jesus, how are you standing?”

“Guys, focus!” Ohio stepped forward, squinting at Caboose as she drew herself up to her complete height. “Why’re you loitering?”

Caboose blinked at her slowly. “...Lottery?”

“Loitering! You’re skulking all suspicious-like!”

Caboose stared at Ohio for a moment, then looked at Donut with a lost expression.

“When a cartoon villain is standing somewhere and pretending to not be a villain,” Donut whispered.

“Oh! Loitering!” Caboose said, beaming. Then he immediately frowned. “I am not doing that. I live here. I cannot do that in my own home.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that. On your feet, Caboose!” Ohio said.

“This is a routine search,” Idaho said, stepping forward. “Spread ‘em!”

Caboose stood up. Freckles immediately started to growl, turning his gaze on the triplets. All three of them came to a halt. Then Caboose gave Freckles a quick scratch behind the ear, and Freckles sat back down, completely calm.

The ensuing search was… over-enthusiastic.

“What do you call this? What do we have here? Huh?!” Ohio demanded as she patted down the front of Caboose’s jacket, although it was so wild and erratic that it was more like someone trying to swat a bug.

“...That is my shirt, Miss Buckeye.”

“A likely story!”

“Maybe it’s in his shoes!” Idaho suggested as he checked Caboose’s pant legs with a similar amount of erratic slapping.

“I found a sandwich!” Iowa called out, pulling a blue-tinged lump of bread out of Caboose’s pocket.

“I was saving it. You can have it,” Caboose said.

“Iowa, don’t eat that!”

Donut didn’t think Caboose was in any particular danger. But the triplets were high-strung today, and while Caboose didn’t look afraid he did look confused and a little uncomfortable. Donut stepped out of the cell properly, hands slightly raised.

“Is it my turn?” he asked. “I haven’t been pat down in ages! Ooh, do I get to spread ‘em?”

Ohio let go of Caboose’s jacket to round on Donut. But she paused, looking thoughtful as she gazed at Donut.

“Yeah, he’s clean, O,” Idaho confirmed, straightening up. Iowa nodded in agreement, taking a bite out of the old sandwich he’d found. They both peered at Donut as well. The stares didn’t seem as aggressive as when they’d eyed Caboose.

“...No, I think we’ve seen enough,” Ohio said after some consideration. She gripped the leash tighter. “Come on, Freckles! We’ve got work to do!”

Freckles looked up at Caboose. Caboose nodded back. Freckles wagged his tail before following Ohio further down the cell row. As they walked away, Ohio looked back at Caboose, pointed at her own eyes then at him. Caboose waved.

“Aw. I didn’t get to spread ‘em,” Donut sighed.

“Maybe next time, Tiropita,” Caboose said, patting him on the back.

 

* * *

 

Doc normally headed right for his office after getting his tea. Today, he sat there at the breakroom table for much longer than normal, drumming his fingers against the surface and staring into his chamomile until it went cold.

Occasionally people passed by him, getting their own coffee. Some of them were discussing the incident. Most of them passed by Doc without notice or comment.

South did stop next to him. She didn’t immediately say anything, only looking down at him with an awkward grimace at first.

“You look like shit,” she finally said.

“I didn’t sleep,” Doc replied.

“Yeah, looks like it.” She looked at his cold cup of tea for a moment, then rifled in her pockets before pulling out something in a colourful wrapper. “Want a protein bar?”

Doc eyed the bar for a moment, then looked away. His first instinct was to politely refuse, but his stomach growled pointedly before he could do so.

“...Yeah. Thank you.” He took the bar with a polite nod, although he couldn’t quite meet South’s eyes as he did so.

South stood there for a moment longer, then lifted her hand like she might have been considering a shoulder pat. Her hand hovered for a moment, then she closed that hand and lowered it again before leaving.

Doc sat there for a minute longer, before picking up the cup of tea and pouring it down the sink. He left the break room, unwrapping the protein bar on his way out.

On the way to his office, he heard the sounds of a dog snarling and someone yelling.

“Keep that thing away from me! I’m just--jesus christ, did you see that? It nearly bit me! What the fuck? Why can’t I get the normal dog?! Why does it have to be the rabid one?!”

Doc headed towards the commotion to find York holding C.C’s leash, while one of the inmates, Scully, flattened himself against the wall and tried to put as much space between him and C.C as possible. C.C was restless, alternating between sitting down and straining a little on her leash. York had a grip on the leash, but he seemed to be having trouble doing much else. He was watching Scully, but seemed to be staring right through him.

“What’s--” Doc started.

“Get the damn mutt away from me!” Scully yelled. “Bring the normal dog! You know who didn’t have to deal with the crazy mutt? Fuckin’ Jenkins. Noooo, he got to escape to the shoe without being mauled--”

“Hey, Doc,” York said. He sounded exhausted. “Sorry, could you do me a favor and pat Scully down? I think C.C smells something on him but I can’t go too close without her trying to shred him.”

“Oh. Oh, um… sure.”

Doc approached, his hands hovering for a moment before he patted Scully down as lightly as possible. Thankfully, the item setting C.C off, a small container of morphine pills, was easily found in Scully’s jacket pocket. The moment Doc removed them, C.C quieted down to smaller growls.

“Okay. Okay…” York stared at Scully for a moment, then at C.C. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck… I can’t deal with wrestling both you and C.C right now. Just… go to the cafeteria, sit in the corner and wait for further instructions.”

“Fine, whatever.” Scully left, muttering under his breath, “Jenkins never has to wait in timeout.”

Once he was gone, his complaining fading off into the distance, York looked at Doc. His eyes were bloodshot. Doc was sure his own eyes looked similar.

After a moment York said, “You look terrible.”

“You don’t look so good yourself. ...No offence.”

“None taken. But guess that wasn’t the best way to ask how you were doing.” York shifted uncomfortably, watching C.C scratch herself behind what remained of her ear. “Seriously. Are you okay? South said O’Malley was… and you’re… y’know?” York gestured at his own face, indicating the areas where Doc had signs of O’Malley’s attack.

Doc ignored the question. “Have you checked on Wash?”

York continued to stare at C.C, making obvious effort not to look at Doc. “Yeah. They… they ended up kicking me out, but they told me he was stable before that. Serious, but stable.”

“They kicked you out?” Doc asked. He tilted his head, squinting. “Wait, is this why they wouldn’t let me in this morning?”

“I don’t know, I just…” York gestured in front of him. “He was there. And he was asleep. All… all bandaged and stuff, with all the little tubes and stuff, and it looked so… wrong… so I sat there for a bit. And he woke up, and he…” York stopped, hand still gesturing uselessly like it would convey what had happened, before closing his hand and lowering it. “I don’t think he was really… all there.”

“He was doing that yesterday,” Doc said quietly. “No actual words, but it sounded like they were meant to be--”

“Like he was trying to say something important,” York agreed. “He didn’t make any sense. But it sounded so urgent. He was just talking and… and crying. Honestly, it kind of freaked me out a bit.”

“Sometimes people just need to cry, York.”

”I know! I know, I’m not saying crying is weird, I’ve just... never seen Wash cry before. I’ve seen him yell and scream and once he puked on my wife’s grave but I’ve never seen him cry. Honestly I just kind of figured he was the ‘cry when nobody’s watching’ type. Like, that’s Wash. He’s closed-off. Guarded.” York looked at Doc for a moment, then looked away quickly again. “Guarded to most, anyway. He doesn’t just… cry like that. The fuck did O’Malley do to him?”

Multiple replies ran through Doc’s mind, but none that wouldn’t give away either something Wash told him in confidence or something that might expose too much knowledge of the sorts of things O’Malley did. Doc just stood there silently, fiddling with the container of morphine pills.

“After that… well, the doctors said I was upsetting him and told me to go. I tried to stay, maybe wasn’t the smartest thing to do, and… well, I’m not allowed back right now. Christ, Doc.” York sat down, leaning against the wall, and put his head in his hands. C.C stuck her nose underneath his arm, but it didn’t get any response at that moment. “What do I do? What if he gets worse? What if something happens and I’m not there? I can’t do that again!”

Doc sat down as well, as close as he could without C.C growling at him. “Wash’ll get better, York. It’s bad… it’s… I know it’s really bad.” Doc’s face clouded over for a moment. “What was done to him… it’s just… bad. But he’ll get better. And I’ll--” Doc paused and corrected himself. “We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. It’ll be alright. We have to believe that.”

York lowered his hands. He finally acknowledged C.C’s insistent nudging, scratching her neck as she settled down next to him.

“Yeah. You’ll make sure, alright,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you’ll get into the hospital without upsetting him. I’m sure he’ll tell you everything.”

“I mean… I don’t know if it will be that easy--”

“It always seemed to be easy for you. I mean… how long did it take Wash to open up to you? A week? When I’d known him for twelve or thirteen years? When even now I still know barely anything about him?” There was a prominent tinge of bitterness in York’s voice.

Doc squinted at him. “Wait. Are you angry at me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t fucking know,” York muttered. He covered his face again.

“I… I just… I was just trying to help.”

“I know! That’s what you do! And you’re good at it, so… fuck it, that’s fine. It’s not about me. I know it’s not about me. It’s just… why can’t I help him? What is so wrong with me that I can’t help him?!”

Doc said nothing. Again afraid of saying the wrong thing. What could he say that was right? ‘It’s not you, it’s your dead wife?’

After a minute, York glanced back at Doc again. He couldn’t look for long. Now his face was tinged red.

“I’m sorry. It’s not the time for that self-pity,” he mumbled, as C.C tried to climb into his lap.

“It’s fine. You should get these things out.” Doc reached into his pocket, locating the remainders of the snack South had given him. “Protein bar?”

“...Doc, that’s a half-eaten bar.”

“So, no?”

“Fuck it, I’m really hungry. Thanks.”

Doc handed it over, then got to his feet. “Listen, I… I have a lot of things to do today, but… but, well… my doors aren’t only open to inmates, you know. If you need to talk… even if it’s inappropriate self-pity…”

York looked down. A small, wry grin appeared on his face. “You have the patience of a saint, you know that?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’ll think on it. I should probably go deal with Scully, before someone wonders why he’s in a timeout. ...If you check on Wash, tell me how he’s going, would you?”

“I’ll… I’ll try.”

They parted ways. Doc returned to heading towards his office. He only realised halfway there that he was still holding the container of morphine pills. He turned them over in his hands, frowning, before slipping them into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Tucker felt his way into the cell and felt something narrowly miss his face. Some socks or underwear, judging by the light thump they made when they hit the floor. He could hear Church moving things, swearing as he tossed items every which way.

“Uh… Church?”

“Where the fuck is my pen?” Church yelled. “How am I supposed to write shit down without a pen? I got a pen. I know I did, I remember getting a pen… Tucker, where is it?”

“How should I know?”

“Fuck!” The sound of clothing being tossed resumed. “I need to write shit on my hand.”

“Dude, again? Get a notepad.”

“What if I forget where I left it? What if I forget that I had it?” Church sounded near hysterical. There was a louder clunk. Probably him tossing a book aside. “This is bullshit, how hard can it be to find a fucking pen?”

“I mean given that we’re not even meant to have them--oh, wait, did you drop it in with the stuff Tex and Doc gave you yesterday?”

The noises of rifling through belongings came to an immediate halt. There was a pause, then Church muttered, “Fuck. Fuck, lemme check. Where’d I--”

“You wrapped that shit up in a jacket and stashed it at the bottom of a big thing of jackets in the laundry room this morning, in case the guards got antsy and decided to flip your cell, dude.”

“...Right. Right, I do remember that,” Church said. There was the thump of him flopping on the ground. “...Jesus Christ.” While the full-out hysterical tone had left his voice, he still sounded distressed. The sort of distress that made Tucker think of a kid lost at the supermarket. One that had been calmed by finding a piece of candy in his pocket, but who was still aware of the greater problem beyond that bit of sugar.

Tucker moved forward, hand stretched out. When he made contact with Church’s arm, he sat down as well and leaned against him, wrapping his arms around Church in a similar way to what he’d done nearly a month ago when trying to spread germs to him. He didn’t say anything. He just squeezed. He heard Church take a deep, shuddering breath. Then a second equally deep but less shaky breath. Tucker could feel a fast pulse under his hands, and could feel it slowing down.

After a couple of minutes of silence, when Tucker felt like Church had probably chilled a little, he said, “If you need to remember shit, tell me what you need. I’ll remind you.”

Church let out a short laugh. “And leave myself open to you fucking with me?”

Tucker grinned as he buried his face in Church’s shoulder. “I promise only to add ridiculous lies, not remove any of the important shit.”

“Hmm… I dunno. That’s still a lot of fuckery.”

“I won’t say anyone died or that you’ve been in a coma for twenty years.”

“...Deal.”

They untangled their limbs from the hug enough to share a handshake. Rather than letting go immediately after, Church held onto that handshake. His thumb rubbed along Tucker’s skin gently.

“Uh… thanks. I know I’m just… I’m just freaking out over nothing, I guess,” Church muttered.

“It’s all good. Dude, we’ve bumped dicks and feelings, we’re way past the point of embarrassment.”

“And the moment is ruined.”

 

* * *

 

C.T hated being cooped up. That was always a problem in a prison, but even worse was spending a week in the shoe only to be put right into lockdown the same day as he got out. What was originally a steadily building itch was now becoming unbearable.

There wasn’t much he could do about that in prison. He needed to move. He needed to be able to pick his directions and not think about it. He needed to exercise what little freedom he had.

C.T just needed to wander for a while. So he walked down corridors, taking random turns here and there. Sometimes he would come across a room he didn’t know existed and test the doorknob. Almost all of them were locked. He occasionally passed another inmate or a guard. The inmates ignored him. The guards stopped him to question what he was doing. Two of them pat him down for weapons, but C.T had none on him and so they’d reluctantly let him go.

After wandering around for a while, the itch was still present but bearable. In retrospect, though… maybe wandering off on his own so soon after a lockdown hadn’t been the best idea. But he wasn’t so unalert that he didn’t hear the quickest, faintest footsteps behind him.

C.T barely managed to duck in time before an elbow swung just above him, right where his head had been seconds ago. He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the kick that Flowers let loose immediately after, sending him stumbling back.

“Hello to you, too,” C.T said, voice slightly strained as he took a couple of steps back and dropped into a fighting stance.

“So polite.” Flowers took a step back as well. He didn’t seem to be in a fighting stance, but C.T could see his muscles tense, ready for a potential blow. That was not as interesting as the lack of a smile of Flowers’ face. “Aren’t you just a bundle of pleasant qualities? After all, you must be… brave… to walk off on your own after yesterday’s little stunt.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes. Yesterday.” Flowers started to slowly circle C.T, never facing away from him. “I warned you to behave.”

“I’ve been a model prisoner, Butch.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Friendly. Polite. Helpful. You’re a real Boy Scout, Hawke.” Flowers spoke quiet, his voice dripping with poisoned honey. “Tell me, was helping O’Malley an attempt at assisting the elderly? Or was it simply in the name of teamwork?”

“O’Malley?” C.T had to search his memory for a moment for that name. “What does he have to do with anything? I only recognise the name because he was Connie’s co-worker’s boyfriend or some--”

Flowers lunged forward. C.T didn’t try to dodge. Instead, he took the brunt of the punch and used Flowers’ closeness to grab him in a headlock. It was like trying to hold onto a freshly caught fish, but C.T kept his grip tight as Flowers tried to squirm away.

“Just because you want to blame me, doesn’t mean I’m responsible for every little thing that goes on here, Butch! Find someone else to bother, if you’re going to be throwing baseless accusations.”

“Frustrated? Doc has a good list of breathing exercises you could try,” Flowers said, before elbowing C.T hard in the stomach and driving all air out of him. C.T let go of Flowers, stumbling back to regain his breath, and finally Flowers started grinning again. “Oh dear, seems like you could really use them.”

“Hilarious,” C.T wheezed. The itch that had led him to wander the prison was quickly fading. He returned Flowers’ grin, straightening up a little. “So… trial by combat, then? No holds barred, winner is whoever can walk by the end of it?”

“I can’t put that on the paperwork,” Flowers said.

“No. But it’ll be fun, won’t it? Nostalgic?” C.T stopped pacing. “This prison is not worthy of your talents. Aren’t you bored?”

Flowers laughed. He came to a halt, reaching up to rub his shoulder absently before doing some proper stretches. A slow, easy smile and blazing eyes. “Oh, Hawke. I’ve been bored for thirty years.”

And then it was all fists.

The fight--their first real fight in thirty years, the shoe hadn’t counted, there hadn’t been enough room--didn’t last long. But even after so long, even with age and injury whittling down their abilities, it was so familiar.

There were differences. Small differences. Flowers was still small, still fairly slender, but there was a bit more of him than there’d once been. Only really noticeable when C.T had his hands pressing into the flesh. Last they’d fought, Flowers had worn his hair in a haphazard bun that would usually fall out during the fight. If C.T had been feeling like a cheap move, it had always been a good place to grab. Wouldn’t work with the dutch flower braid he had now. He ran out of breath sooner than he used to. They both did.

And of course, there was that stiffness that Flowers couldn’t shake. That arm that didn’t move quite right. This time, C.T avoided hitting that area if he could help it. This was a fair fight, or as close to fair as either of them could be.

Their fights had often got interrupted in the past. Usually by their actual objectives getting in the way. Or occasionally Connie would arrive and, depending on the mission, either smack Flowers over the head with a heavy object or just give them both an exasperated look and tell them to knock it off.

But this time, as Flowers dangled off C.T’s back and tried to choke him out, voices floated down the corridor. Both of them froze, Flowers’ feet dangling a couple of inches from the ground.

“--appreciate you accompanying me back to my office. One can’t help but feel nervous given recent events.”

“I hear you. If you need my help, I could always give you my number so you can call me without having to leave your office. I don’t mind escorting you around.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I don’t want to be a burden. Plus, if Miss Kimball gets wind of it she’ll never let me live it down, I’m sure.”

Flowers immediately let go of C.T, dropping back to the floor, before moving the arm that’d been choking him out so instead it was slung across C.T’s shoulders in a buddy-buddy manner. His usual sunny smile was back on his face, like it had never left. Just as he put his arm there, North and Doyle rounded the corner, chatting.

“Morning, men. How are we holding up?” Flowers asked cheerfully. Doyle immediately let out a startled yelp.

“Oh dear! ...Oh, oh it’s… it’s only you, Captain,” Doyle sighed, putting a hand over his heart as he collected himself. North covered his mouth to hide the smile that had appeared there. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little jumpy. We’re soldiering on, I assure you.”

“Why are you hugging an inmate, sir?” North asked, giving the two of them a bemused look.

“North, you should know as well as anyone that it’s important to show positive feelings towards all human beings, inmates included. That way, when they return to civilization, they will have a more positive outlook on themselves and find the strength to break the cycle of criminal activity that brought them here.”

North nodded, an expression of amused doubt on his face. Doyle tilted his head, studying C.T carefully.

“...Doesn’t he have a life sentence?” Doyle asked slowly.

“I wanted to be included. I have a lot of emotions and I need them validated,” C.T said flatly.

“He may be in for life, but that’s a life that must be spent getting along with his fellow man,” Flowers said. “But I shouldn’t keep you. Gentlemen, I hope you have a good day, a pleasant night and excellent beauty sleep. Not that either of you need it.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. I was using a new sleeping mask,” Doyle said, perking up. “I’m glad it’s having a noticeable effect.”

“What’s the difference between the masks?” North asked, as the two of them started to head back down the corridor.

“Well, this one is shaped like a penguin. I find it quite soothing.”

C.T and Flowers waited until the footsteps had faded. Then they looked at each other.

There was one tense moment where C.T thought the fight was going to resume. Then they both cracked up laughing. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, using each other to support their own weight. The absurdity of the moment making them forget that they were enemies. Then, once they were wheezing again, they remembered what their situation was.

Flowers moved away first. He didn’t remove his hands entirely, now just putting a hand on C.T’s shoulder. He looked to a side for a moment, mouth twisting thoughtfully, before he focused back on C.T. The smile was gone again.

“Well, this was fun. But I’m not so old that I forgot why we were ‘talking’ to begin with,” he said pleasantly.

“You want to go back into it?” C.T challenged.

Flowers considered it. His eyes flickered from C.T’s face and moved downward, in a manner perversely similar to eying up a potential partner at the bar.

“No. You fought fair. Either you’re confident I’d have no proof that it was you, or you know there’ll be no proof because you’re innocent. Perhaps it’s all just a terrible misunderstanding.” Those last words had a touch of sarcasm under the friendly tone.

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll let this go for now. But mark my words, friend.” Flowers smiled at him, leaning in as he dug his fingers into C.T’s shoulder. “If I find out you had anything to do with what happened to Wash… well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to mail you back to Connie in pieces. I’d hate to do that. She’s a lovely woman and it’d be very upsetting for her.”

He let go of C.T and headed off down the corridor, whistling to himself. C.T watched him leave, then shook his head and headed the opposite way.

 

* * *

 

Delta had only been out of the infirmary for two days, having been deemed well enough to be less supervised. He thought it would be the last he’d see of any doctors until O’Malley caught up with him and came up with a suitably devious plan to maim him.

But no sooner had he arrived at the library to perform his duties that one of the guards had turned up and told him that Doc wanted to see him. Delta didn’t want to cause trouble, so he agreed. Now he was sitting on the sofa, wondering if he’d shown any signs of mental illness or trauma.

“I heard you had pneumonia. How are you doing?”

“That is not a psychology-related disease,” Delta pointed out.

“No. But it’s what I’m asking. How are you?” Doc didn’t look at Delta as he spoke. He was looking at some papers on his desk, leaning over them and pushing sheets aside with two fingers.

“I have a lingering cough, but it should fade soon. I am not hallucinating. I am at near-optimal condition.”

“Were you at near-optimal condition yesterday?” Doc asked quietly.

“Affirmative.” Delta examined the fabric of the sofa before looking up at Doc. “I do not require therapeutic assistance. I thought I made that clear the last time we interacted.”

Doc stopped looking at the files. He paused, still hunched over his desk, before turning and making his way to his usual chair. He sat down and pulled his chair a little closer to Delta, before leaning forward with his hands braced against his knees.

“Did you hurt Wash yesterday?”

Delta stared at Doc with confusion for a moment. Then he sat up straighter, now regarding Doc with a wary eye.

“Washington told you,” he said. “About the basement.”

There was no reason for Doc to suspect him unless he knew about that. Combined with Church having told Tucker, Delta started to wonder if there was anyone in this prison that didn’t know. Perhaps O’Malley’s will wouldn’t matter either way.

“Before you freak out, I’m the only one who knows,” Doc said. “I’m a therapist. I made an oath and I intend to keep it.” He shifted in his seat, leaning back slightly and regarding Delta with a rather cold stare. “But that wasn’t what I was referring to. Please answer my actual question.”

Delta shifted his sitting position and looked Doc in the eye. “I have not touched Washington for twenty-five years. I was in the library yesterday from after breakfast until lockdown, reading through a set of encyclopedias on law. The guard on duty there was named Blanton and he can confirm my alibi.”

Doc regarded Delta for a bit longer. He didn’t smile, but his expression got slightly less frosty. “Okay. I had to ask.”

“It was a logical assumption,” Delta admitted.

“Then let me ask you one other thing, Denz--Delta,” Doc corrected himself. He picked at his chair absently, frowning as he considered his words. Finally he said, “Will you?”

“Why do you think I would want to?” Delta asked. “What gain does that bring me?”

“What gain did locking him in a basement for three months bring you? He… he told me a lot of detail. You had your information long before it was over.”

Delta nodded. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “You told me that you took an oath of secrecy. Does that apply to me, as well?”

“If keeping it won’t hurt anyone… then yes. I’ll keep any secret. Even yours. I won’t even tell Wash,” Doc promised.

“I put Washington in that basement because my emotions got the better of me. I lost someone to Washington’s partner. I wanted vengeance, and I achieved it too quickly. It was not satisfying. I decided that more vengeance was the answer. Washington happened to be the closest. Everything that I had built… everything that my father had built… I lost it all in the pursuit of pointless vengeance." Delta looked down at his hands for a moment, considering his laced fingers, before looking up again. “I do not like loose ends, Doctor. I will admit that much. But I hold no animosity towards Washington. In truth, I never should have. If this loose end could be wrapped up with a formal apology, then that is how I would solve it.”

“You think that’ll fix it?” Doc asked, his voice terse. “You think you can solve months of torment? Years of the fallout? Do you think an apology will be enough?”

“Sometimes a situation cannot be fixed, Doctor,” Delta said. “A truce does not fix the damage a war has done. But sometimes a truce must be made.”

Doc squinted, gnawing on his lip as he considered it, before sighing. “Is that something I should tell Wash?”

“I would appreciate it.”

“If I have the chance, I promise I’ll pass it on. But I can’t promise he’s going to be receptive to it.”

“...May I ask a question of you, Doctor?”

Doc considered it for a long moment. Finally, reluctantly, he said, “I suppose.”

“Why the concern?”

"Well. Wash is important to me. You hurt him. You hurt York. And they're the only two friends I've ever had." Doc regarded Delta like he was looking at something squashed on the bottom of his boot. "If you died, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. But I want a reason to believe that this situation doesn't need to be resolved with vengeance. I don't want Wash to go back down that path if there's another way. I want to believe that you can be reasoned with, even if you don't deserve it."

“Understandable. I assure you, I am capable of reason.” Delta paused, squinting. “...York. Middle-aged with an injured eye?"

"That's him."

"I do not recall harming York."

“No. No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Doc muttered, giving Delta another chilly look.

 

* * *

 

Donut had got somewhat distracted from his attempts at trailing Grif, which meant that Grif was left alone for longer than a bathroom break for the first time since he’d taken that meth-meth shroom. He could have used the chance to find Birdie. Fuck, did he want to. With Donut trailing him, time had moved slower than ever.

But with the guards this level of jumpy? Fuck, Grif was never much for authority but even he wasn’t going to mess with them when they were like this. He’d blown smoke into a guard’s face just after the Phil incident, and ended up with a cracked rib.

So, instead, he was lying down in the yard and trying to enjoy what sun there was to offer, stretched out like a cat having a nap. Eyes shut, oblivious to the world. Well, not oblivious enough that someone stepping next to him to block the sun didn’t go unnoticed.

“Dude, move. Stop blocking my sunlight,” Grif grumbled, eyes still shut.

“Oh, sorry!” That was Matthews’ voice. Some of the sunlight returned. The rest didn’t. Bitters must be there too, and he wouldn’t move so easily. What a maverick. Grif huffed before opening his eyes to look up at the two.

“What? I’m busy!”

“You’re sleeping on the concrete,” Bitters said.

“Yeah, and I was very busy doing that. The concrete’s warm, dude, don’t knock it until you try it.” Grif shut his eyes again. “If that’s all you wanted--”

“No, no, we just…” Matthews sat down, crossing his legs and sitting with his back straight. Bitters flopped down next to him and sprawled out comfortably. “You’ve been here for a while, and… and we thought maybe…”

Grif opened one eye again. “Guards bother you this morning?”

“Nothin’ serious,” Bitters grunted.

“They left bruises! It’s totally serious!” Matthews protested.

Bitters rolled his eyes. “They searched me a few times, and one of them grabbed my arm when I tried to leave too quickly. I just bruise easy, is all. Matthews is being a baby about the whole thing.”

“Anyway, we were wondering--” Matthews started.

“You were wondering,” Bitters corrected.

“If you, uh… had any tips for… I mean, you’ve been here a long time, so you must know how to not make the guards angry, right?”

Grif snorted. “You’re asking me? Honestly, it’d be better to ask Donut. The guards fucking love him.”

“Eh. Donut’s both too peppy and kind of… I dunno, I don’t want to mess with that guy,” Bitters said. “I feel like he could beat me up really easy. You see those guns?”

“You can’t give us anything?” Matthews asked, staring at Grif with pleading eyes.

Grif sighed. After a moment of consideration, he sat up.

“Look. I’ll give you some basic pointers. Honestly, this shit is not really a big deal. The guards’ll calm down soon enough, and worst comes to worst maybe someone’ll get a broken bone or two. Anything worse and it causes inquiries, y’know?”

Matthews nodded seriously.

“So, I might not be good at it, but here’s what you do. Don’t give them any reason to come after you. Sometimes people come in with the deck stacked against them--anyone who’s killed a cop or a child will probably get it rough, and I don’t think any kid fuckers have ever lasted here but that’s more of an inmate justice deal. But you guys are just druggies, and they’re a dime a dozen.

“Beyond that, just lie low. Play dumb, if you have to. Don’t give them reason to think you’re planning stuff. If you can--this is directed at you, Bitters--try and keep the sass to a minimum. God knows it’s hard for mavericks like us, but its the safe way to play it. Matthews, don’t try kissing ass when they’re in this mood. Simmons was big on that, and normally the guards are fine with it, but--”

“Who’s Simmons?” Matthews asked.

Grif considered his answer for a moment, frowning. “...Look, that’s not important to this conversation. Anyway, just… make sure your cell has nothing incriminating in it while they’re all uppity. And if they do get punchy… don’t fight back. Curl up, go limp, whatever. All fighting back will get you is a rougher response and extra time in the shoe. Honestly, there is never a situation in this dump where chasing fights is gonna get you anything.”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly driven by testosterone and fisticuffs here,” Bitters said dryly.

“I’ve never been in a fight. Well, except when I was six and someone took the glitter pen I was using, but that was mostly… you know, kid-slaps,” Matthews said.

“Then you’ll be fine. Just stick to your cell, increase the amount of naps, and this shit’ll blow over once they remember that Wash is a dick and O’Malley is an unusually crazy asshole that doesn’t represent all of us.”

“Okay. Thanks, sir! You’re the best!” Matthews said, getting up.

“Yeah, thanks. I guess,” Bitters said, following suit.

“If you want to repay me in oranges once this has blown over, I won’t say no,” Grif said, shutting his eyes again and returning to basking in the sunlight.

 

* * *

 

C.T was sitting in his cell alone, flicking through a book about sports that belonged to his cellmate. He wasn’t really processing it. Only searching for something to do. The itch was gone, but the boredom remained.

A shadow passed over him. C.T looked up, expecting to see either his cellmate or one of his men. Instead, he saw a large, scarred man with pale eyes staring down at him.

“...Yeah?” C.T asked.

Locus stared down at C.T for a moment, then reached into his jacket and withdrew two items. One was a piece of paper. The other was an item wrapped in cloth. He held them both out to C.T.

“The hell is this?”

“Proof of allegiance,” Locus said simply.

C.T raised an eyebrow before taking the two items. He looked between them before placing the note down and peeling back part of the cloth. He pulled back enough to see a glint of sharp metal and to smell the telltale scent of dried blood. He quickly closed it again, before shutting his eyes and breathing in through his nose.

“Okay. That’s why he thought it was me,” he muttered under his breath. Someone using an actual knife? Only two people in prison that could supply those, at least to C.T’s knowledge. One was C.T himself, the other was a guy who didn’t trade in weapons because ‘they were for assholes.’

Locus said nothing. He just stood there and waited. C.T shoved the wrapped knife back at him, and Locus took it and placed it back inside his jacket.

“What did you think that would accomplish, other than to make every guard in this place angry?” C.T asked, voice steady. “You’re lucky you reached me without being searched.”

“There was no luck involved,” Locus said. “I was approached for assistance and decided to use that for my own purposes. What it accomplished is in that note.”

He looked at the paper that C.T still hadn’t unfolded. C.T looked at it for a moment, then unfolded it with one hand and read the contents. His expression went from irritated to confused. Then the realization hit.

“Aaaand that explains why he was angry about it,” C.T breathed. He looked up at Locus. “So. Washington was one of his?”

“Formerly. My information was severely outdated,” Locus said. “But it is very likely that much of Washington's knowledge still applies. It could be used to root out any long-standing operations.”

“Could be, could be,” C.T mused. "Awful big risk for awful little gain, though."

"Perhaps. But most of the suspicion is on O'Malley, as the instigating party. It would seem to be an unrelated incident from the Director's work. Furthermore, Washington has no idea of my identity. He likely realised there was a second party, but it was dark. I did not speak. Gathering this information did not cost me any future advantage,” Locus said plainly.

“Okay. Okay… I’ll run this by my sources, but if this is a trick--”

“The information is true, provided Washington wasn’t lying.”

C.T nodded. Locus watched him for a moment, then turned to leave. C.T spoke up before he could.

“You’re Samuel Ortez, aren’t you? You were one of Sebiel’s kids.”

“I am one of Sebiel’s students,” Locus said tersely.

“I heard about you. Good reputation, even for one of his. I thought you fled for the hills with the rest of them,” C.T said.

“I did. But only because I had no other point of contact. I took the work available to me, considering what skills I had. If I had been given a point of contact besides Sebiel, I would have utilized it.” Locus’ mouth twisted into a frown before he said, “It was not my choice to leave.”

C.T watched him for a few moments.

“...I need to make some inquiries,” he finally said.

“Understandable.”

“And don’t…” C.T rubbed his face for a moment. “Don’t do anything like this again without asking first, alright?” His tone was similar to when he’d talk to the children in the foster homes and orphanages. Calm and understanding, even if he didn’t feel that way. Maybe a little patronizing. But Locus didn’t even blink.

“Understood.”

 

* * *

 

When Doc walked down to SHU that evening, he saw North wheeling the food trolley out of there. North was humming to himself, and when Doc approached he smiled at him.

“Hey, Doc. You off soon?”

“Couple of hours.” Doc looked at the food trolley. There were mostly empty plates. One plate was still full. “Did you miscount?”

North looked at Doc, then at the plate. He shrugged. “Must have missed someone. Guess my mind slipped. Silly me.”

Doc gave North an exasperated look. “North, really?” He picked up the plate of food and held out his hand. “I don’t have the key to SHU. Can I borrow yours?”

“You sure you want to do that?”

“I’m good with keys. I returned South’s ones.”

“No, I’m not doubting that you’re responsible. But you really shouldn’t be going in to see him.”

“Maybe not. But you should be feeding him. I guess we’re both making mistakes in how we conduct ourselves.” Doc tilted his head. “Do you want us to go and talk to Niner about the difficulty we’re having doing our jobs?”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” North unclipped the key to the SHU cells from his belt and handed it to Doc. “I’ll be patrolling the smuggler’s block after this. Return that to me when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Be careful.” North wheeled the trolley away, and Doc continued towards O’Malley’s cell.

 

* * *

 

Doc stood in front of O’Malley’s cell for a long time. If the food in his hands wasn’t cold yet, it certainly would be now. His hands were shaking enough to make the half-frozen vegetables vibrate.

After several minutes of standing there, fighting with himself, Doc finally unlocked the cell and stepped inside. He closed the door after him and stuck the key in his pocket before turning towards O’Malley.

O’Malley didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence. He was sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall with his eyes shut. He looked a little battered. There were purple bruises around one of his wrists and blackening an eye. Had South done that? Or another guard?

Doc didn’t say anything. He put the plate of food on the floor and slid it towards him. Then he sat down, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. He waited.

“So threats of leaving me in a drugged haze are fine, but missing a few meals is bad, is it?” O’Malley finally said, eyes still closed. “Truly an odd system.”

“Did they tell you?” Doc asked.

“That I’m being transferred? It may have come up,” O’Malley said. He finally opened his eyes--well, one of them, the other was sealed shut by the black eye--and grinned. “But we both know that’s not going to happen, Doc.”

“What makes you think that?”

O’Malley shut his eyes again. He didn’t reply. Doc watched him for a bit, then stared at the cold plate of food. Suddenly, O’Malley’s hand lashed out and grabbed Doc’s wrist, pulling his arm towards him.

“You know… the Doc I knew wouldn’t have threatened me,” he said, shifting closer to Doc. “That’s… interesting. It may be an ineffectual threat, but it was a threat nonetheless.”

He wasn’t smiling. He opened his eyes and gazed at Doc. Doc met his eyes for a moment, then looked down. But O’Malley grabbed his face and tilted it back to him.

“I may have not noticed that change when I should have, Doc. But I know you. I know you better than anyone else ever will. And I know you well enough to know that you could have transferred me a long time ago if that was truly what you wanted. But you remember. You remember what happened last time you left me. You know it will happen again.

“Besides.” O’Malley’s grin reappeared on his face. “What other use do you have? Even if you’re not actively killing anyone with your incompetence, there’s nothing else you do here that couldn’t be replaced. I hear Kimball is very good at her job, and there are more qualified therapists out there. I’m the only reason you have.”

Doc kept his eyes downcast, despite O’Malley’s best efforts to keep his gaze.

“You’re right,” Doc said quietly. “This prison could replace me. They wouldn’t notice. They barely notice now. Even Wash could probably replace me if he went out and found another therapist. This… this isn’t news to me, O’Malley. I know that. I’ve always known that.”

O’Malley grinned wider. He pulled Doc’s hand closer to him, a gesture that might have been sweet if it was anyone else. Any other situation. “Do you want more blood on these hands, Doc? Do you want others to bleed like Wash did? Like the doctors and inmates that bled for you after you ran off?”

“...No. I don’t,” Doc whispered.

“Then persuade Niner. Stop the transfer. Or transfer with me, if that’s what it takes. I could adjust to a new prison. A new prison of new playthings. None as fun as you, my pet, but fun nonetheless.” O’Malley tugged Doc’s face closer so that he was whispering into his ear. “Make yourself useful, Doc. This is the only way you ever will be.”

O’Malley scraped his teeth lightly against Doc’s ear, then licked along his jaw. Doc didn’t respond. Didn’t even tense up. He just shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

“I’ll be useful,” Doc mumbled. “I’ll stop them from transferring you.”

O’Malley chuckled. “Of course you will.” Then he pressed his lips against Doc’s, at the same time letting go of Doc’s wrist in order to wrap one hand lightly around his neck while the other remained on Doc’s face. The hand around his neck squeezed lightly. Not enough to cut off Doc’s breathing. But long enough to make it obvious that he could, should he choose to.

Doc didn’t respond. He rarely did. He tended to freeze when O’Malley had his fun. Sometimes O’Malley would order him to respond. To pretend like he was enjoying it. Sometimes he didn’t have to, on those rare occasions where the sensations overcame reason and, just for a moment, it felt good to just give in.

His eyes were watery. He could taste salt.

Then Doc reached up and touched O’Malley’s face. He grazed the side of O’Malley’s face before cupping it firmly, leaning into the kiss for a moment even though that put further pressure on his throat. Thumb brushing near the corner of O’Malley’s mouth. This seemed to throw O’Malley off, because for a moment he pulled back.

“...What game are you playing, Doc?”

Doc didn’t respond, except to close the distance again. At the same time he shifted further forward, pressing against O’Malley in a similar manner to how O’Malley often did to him. Not as violent, not quite as forceful, but nonetheless insistent. He pushed and hoped, for the first time ever, that O’Malley didn’t pull away.

Whether out of lust, curiosity or whatever other reason that O’Malley had for anything, he didn’t. After a few moments of puzzled inaction, O’Malley gripped Doc tighter. Pulled him closer. Tried to tug back the control without fully stopping this unusual behavior. It reminded Doc of Wash trying to keep a grip on Freckles’ leash.

Doc let O’Malley pull him closer. At the same time, he shifted his grip on O’Malley’s face, cupping it and tilting O’Malley’s head back. His other hand remained free, instead straying towards his own pocket. Then he pulled back, still cupping O’Malley’s face. Before O’Malley could close his mouth, Doc wedged his finger and thumb in there and held it open long enough to tip in the morphine pills he’d confiscated from Scully.

O’Malley instinctively bit down on the fingers in his mouth, and when Doc yanked them away they were bloody. But too little too late. Doc tossed the now-empty pill container away and clasped his hand over O’Malley’s mouth before he could spit them out. For the first time, he shoved. He shoved O’Malley so hard that the back of his head bounced against the concrete floor, earning a pained choke.

Doc pinned O’Malley’s arms with his legs, trapping O’Malley under his weight and trying to stay steady as O’Malley started to thrash and kick his legs furiously, enraged noises muffled by Doc’s hand. Then Doc pinched his nose shut and waited.

No-one could last long without air, and thrashing around while trying to scream about how doomed Doc was cut that time down drastically. The whole time, Doc stared down at O’Malley. He didn't look away once.

Eventually, O’Malley let out a cough, and Doc saw his throat constrict as he choked down most of the pills. Doc still waited a little longer. Only when O’Malley’s eyes started to roll back a little did Doc let go of his nose. Then his mouth.

O’Malley immediately spat a few pills back out. But nowhere near the volume of pills that Doc had crammed in. He stopped thrashing, instead wheezing as he regained his breath.

“What did you just--” O’Malley spluttered. “You--how dare you! How dare you--” O’Malley tried to lunge, but only made it a couple of inches before Doc locked him back down again. “Ohh, you're going to regret this, you--”

“No. I don't think I'm going to,” Doc said quietly. “I think this might be the first thing I've ever done that I don't regret.”

Doc didn't unpin O’Malley, for fear that he might try and vomit the pills up. Doc couldn't remember if that would make it better or worse, but he wasn't taking chances.

Minutes ticked by, during which O’Malley continued to threaten him.

“Doc, do you not realize how serious this is? Get off me! If you don't, you are in for pain that will make what I did to Wash look like scratches! Get off!”

More minutes ticked by. Doc hadn't budged. O’Malley continued to rant.

“I won't be sweet like I normally am! You'll learn what violation really is! You'll die split down the middle like someone ripping off the legs of a roast chicken!”

Yet more minutes. O’Malley was still thrashing, but his movements were getting noticeably sluggish. He was running out of breath, and trying to suck in as much air as he could between words.

“Should have… should have… fucked you in front of Wash like he told me to… should have ruined you like I ruined him. No-one would have noticed... if I'd tied you up in the dark…”

O’Malley stopped thrashing his legs, now staring at Doc’s face. The anger was fading, his mouth twisting into a bitter grin.

“If you don't think you'll regret it, Doc… then why are you crying?”

Doc blinked, more tears rolling down his face as he did so.

“You don't want this, Doc.” Like a switch had been flipped, O’Malley was suddenly speaking in a hushed, sickly sweet tone. “You don't want blood on your hands. Not even mine. It isn't too late. I won't tell anyone what you did, all you have to do is unpin me and take me to the infirmary, and this will be forgiven.”

Doc didn't move. O’Malley waited for him to move, and when he didn’t the switch flipped back.

“Let me up, you useless, pathetic excuse for a therapist! Get off me!” His attempts at thrashing resuming. This time it was slow and heavy. “Get off me! Get off me! Get off! You'll be caught, you fool! Do you think no-one will realise it was you?!”

“But you said it yourself, O’Malley. What use do I have outside of you?” Doc asked. “All I have ever wanted is to be useful. So what… what do I have to lose once you're gone?”

There was a pause. O’Malley’s expression didn't change much, just minute twitches in his face transforming it into something else. It wasn't anger that made his face turn white, wasn't anger that made his eyes widen. It was something Doc had never seen before on him.

It was sheer, absolute terror.

O’Malley was blinking heavily now, and seemed to be struggling to stay awake with everything he had left.

“...When did this happen?” he muttered, more to himself than Doc. His whisper quiet and horrified. “When did he… why didn't I see... when did I lose the thread?” His eyes focused on Doc’s again. “When did you change, Doc? Why can’t I see you like I once did?”

Doc wondered that, too. When had O’Malley stopped being this force that dominated every facet of his being? It felt like for so long O’Malley had seemed larger than life. Now Doc could feel bones and wrinkles, could grip him tight enough to bruise if he wanted. Had he changed? Or had it always been this way?

“Doc… Doc, this isn’t the way murder should be done.” O’Malley’s tone was quiet. Pleading. “It should be done with knives. With blood. How is this different from you killing multiple patients with incompetence? Besides, I’m worth more alive. How else will Washington get his revenge? Do you really think he’s let that go? Do you really want to take away his one purpose? Or do you think you can fix him? If that’s not enough, I’ll tell you who assisted me this time. Doc, you don’t want to… you don’t… you need to back down before it's too late. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll even forgive you.”

Doc placed one hand against the concrete beside O’Malley, watching him closely. The other hand picked up the empty pill container.

“I want to say… that this was all for a good reason,” Doc said quietly. “That it’s because I know you’ll hurt people if I let you go. Whether it be Wash or whoever Niner transfers you to. And… maybe, to some extent it is. But… but truth is? I’m tired. I’m tired of that creak when you try to sneak up on me, I’m tired of how you won’t leave my office until I cave, and I’m tired of that fucking grin.

“This…” Doc gestured at O’Malley. “This was for Wash. But this?” Doc shook the empty pill container in front of O’Malley’s face. “Having you go quietly? Peacefully?”

Despite the tears, a smile crossed Doc’s face. A small but vicious smile that almost mirrored the one he so sorely hated.

“That's for me.”

And with that, Doc got up. O’Malley was free, but he could barely move. With one last bit of energy he made a weak grab for Doc, but his hand only managed to flop uselessly against Doc’s ankle.

“You cannot--I will not allow this! Kill me properly or not at all, Doc! Cut my throat out! Stab me and watch me writhe! Do something! Just... not this... Don't do it... don't you do it, you'll be nothing without me... don't..."

O'Malley's voice cracked for a moment. His next words were soaked in fear.

"Don't... not like this... Doc... please..."

Doc stopped at the door. He gave O’Malley one more long look. Taking in how his hand was still outstretched, the little twitches of his fingers, his half-shut eyes trying to stay open, trying to stare Doc down but failing so miserably… Doc etched it all into his mind. Then he turned away and shut the cell door behind him.

He leaned against the door for a moment, eyes shut. He reached up and wiped away the tears, trying to compose himself before he went and returned the keys back to North.

He’d lost so much to O’Malley. He’d lost fifteen years of his life. He’d lost any autonomy over his body. He’d lost what little self-worth he’d scraped up over the years. He might have lost Wash. He didn’t know yet. Now he’d lost the pacifism that he’d stood by for so long. And drugging O’Malley and leaving him to die on the floor of a cell wouldn’t bring any of that back.

But that would be the last thing O’Malley would ever take from him.

Doc wiped away the tears, and he caught his breath. And as he felt his heart race like it never had before, he understood now why Wash had chased revenge for so long.


	9. Flashback One, Part One - Samuel Ortez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before there was Locus, there was a little boy named Samuel Ortez. There was another little boy who was kind of a shitbag. There was a third little boy who wasn't. And there was a man named Rhee Sebiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will hopefully be in two weeks, but I'm also not finished with it yet. Oops.
> 
> Updated tags to include implications of child abuse and neglect, which will also likely be a thing in at least the next chapter or two.

Locus had always operated primarily with fear.

Not necessarily in a conscious way, but causing fear often helped in what he did. Being fearsome ended fights before they begun and made people consider hiring him for any job that needed something terrifying behind it.

This was true even before his work. Even when Locus hadn't existed, and instead there had been a little boy named Samuel Ortez living in his place.

Little is only a relative term, because for an eight-year-old Samuel was a big kid. Despite this he had a tendency to blend into the background. He would sit in the corner with a book, ignoring the other children. But if in a fit of childish desire he wanted something another child had—a pudding or a more interesting book—he generally just had to glare at them and say 'give me that.'

To be honest, it had been unprofessional. Particularly given the setting. Stealing from children who had little to offer to begin with? Locus would not do what little Sam had done. There was not enough gain and he did not use his talents for his own purposes. He would kill a child if it suited the job, but he would not be so petty as to bully one.

Even back then, however, he was straight to the point. He did what needed to be done to achieve the goal and then he moved on. He was only interested in the end result, not in making the child suffer. Locus and Samuel had that in common. He just wanted that pudding. He just wanted the end goal.

Felix was not, and had never been, like that. For him, how he did it had always been more important than the objective itself.

The five-year-old child who would one day be Felix was placed in the same group home when Samuel was eight. Isaac Gates was a skinny child who flinched whenever people raised their voices. A common story in the foster system. He appeared the very definition of powerless.

Isaac was not powerless. If Isaac wanted a pudding cup, he would get it too. He just had a different way of doing things. Samuel discovered this first hand.

Every week, on the same day, every child got one pudding cup. Samuel retreated to the bedroom to eat his, because the other kids would normally eat elsewhere and he liked to be left alone. He sat on his bed and ate slowly, savouring the taste.

Isaac followed him into the room, but Samuel paid him no mind. Isaac ate most of his pudding fast, wolfing it down like someone would take it from him if he didn't finish in time. He stopped when he had only a tiny bit of pudding left. Then he trotted over and peered at Samuel for a few moments.

Samuel stared back and muttered, “What?”

“I have to pee,” Isaac said quietly. The first words he'd heard the five-year-old say. He held out the mostly-eaten pudding. “Can you hold this while I go?”

Samuel had considered the request for a few moments. No-one had asked such a thing. Most of the other children wouldn't dare. They were afraid of him. But he'd seen no harm in it.

“Okay.”

Samuel held out his hand and Isaac handed him the half-eaten pudding. Isaac took a couple of steps back. He stared for a moment, then gave the most shit-eating smile that Samuel, or Locus, had ever, before or since, seen on a five-year-old. Even as Isaac, he just couldn't resist his little moment of gloating, even if this time it was done without words.

Then the grin transformed into a pout. Isaac scrunched up his eyes, covered them with his hands and started wailing at the top of his lungs. No real tears came out (he wasn't that good yet) but the lungs on him were enough to bring one of the caretakers in from the other room.

Isaac pointed at Samuel and sobbed, “He stole my pudding!”

Samuel had a history of taking things from other children. He was holding two puddings. Of course they believed Isaac. When they made him give one of the puddings back Isaac insisted that the fuller one was his. Samuel was left with an order to sit in the corner and a mostly-eaten cup of pudding.

Later in the day, once Samuel was allowed to wander again, the first words he said upon seeing Isaac were, “You lied.”

“I wanted that pudding.”

“You could have asked them.”

Sometimes the caretakers would give an extra pudding if asked, though only if they thought the other kids weren’t watching. It was more common for the new kids, and extra common from the ones who'd come from violent homes. For Isaac it would have been a sure thing.

Isaac grinned at him. Same shit-eating grin. “But I wanted that one.”

 

* * *

 

They spent a year in the group home together. It was a perpetually frustrating year.

At first they managed to stay at a rocky truce. Samuel had never been inclined to start a fight for no reason, and Isaac had other children to talk to. After he stopped with his initial wary silence, he acquired friends rather readily. But then Isaac would start to mess with them, always subtle enough that they didn't notice.

Once, Samuel had seen Isaac pick up another child's teddy bear from their bed. It belonged to a child he'd recently befriended. He'd looked around to make sure no-one was watching, seemingly considering Samuel beneath his concern. Then he ripped the head off it and left both pieces in the bed of a different child.

Later, the bear's owner returned to find his precious teddy bear missing, and once the pieces were found in the other child's bed a fight broke out between the two. Neither of them realised Isaac was involved, and Samuel hadn't been inclined to tell them. It wasn't his business.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what Isaac did to the other children. But it wasn't impulsive, because Isaac was careful enough that people didn't normally link it to him. He didn't bother hiding it from Samuel, though.

Samuel hadn't understood, but Locus did. Isaac just wanted an audience. What was the point in doing these things if no-one saw how clever he was?

Samuel would have been content to let it be. Except for the fact that he liked his quiet time and Isaac causing all these arguments for his own amusement made things noisy and irritating.

Through his observations, Samuel learned that Isaac liked movies. At that age, he was particularly fond of the Lion King. He liked to replay 'Be Prepared' a few times before watching the rest of the film. One day, Samuel stole the home's copy of the Lion King and hid it on a high shelf, where he knew Isaac would never be able to find it. He left a note on Isaac's bed.

 

_Be quiet for a week and I will return the Lion King._

 

Samuel didn't see Isaac's response to the note, but the next day he found a DVD on his bed. A copy of a different Disney film, Mulan. Isaac had apparently been observing what Samuel watched as carefully as Samuel had been observing him. There was just something about soldiers that had always interested Samuel.

The difference is that Isaac had just snapped the DVD in half and left the fragments there for Samuel to find, rather than trying to negotiate.

Samuel retrieved the copy of the Lion King and threw it in the trash, before leaving the case, with a note that said 'wrong answer' tucked inside, on Isaac's bed.

This started a chain of petty revenges. Never coming to blows. Samuel had once hit another child, before Isaac had shown up. Just once. The adults had stressed afterward that he was never, ever to do this. So Samuel didn't after that one time. His and Isaac's war was restricted to theft and insults and various annoyances. And the war was quiet enough that most of the caretakers didn't even notice.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing? What are you reading? Hey! Hey, robot! I'm bored. Pay attention to me.”

Samuel let out an internal sigh before staring over his book at Isaac, who was bouncing around in front of him. “Robot?”

“Yeah. Robot. That's you. Come onnnn. I'm bored.”

While in the group home, they both attended the same school. Samuel was in the fourth grade while Isaac was in the first. Samuel tended not to hang around with the other kids much—besides, he'd have to return to his old school once his mother was better, so there was no point in making friends—and Isaac, while popular with the other children, often tended to pass on their company in favor of pestering Samuel.

“Find someone else to talk to.”

“They're boring.” Isaac casually elbowed his way into Samuel's personal space, pushing the book aside. “I'm bored!” Samuel shifted away from Isaac before focusing back on his book. Isaac rocked on his feet for a moment before grinning. “Come with me.”

“Where and why?”

“I saw a duck pond.”

“The duck pond? The one in the park?”

“It's not far.”

“It's outside the school grounds.”

“So? School grounds are boring.”

“Isaac—“

“If you don't come with, I'll tell them you hit me. That you made me cry and scared me off.” Isaac's grin took on that shit-eating quality. “Don't be a baby, Sam.”

Samuel didn't move. After a moment, Isaac took a step back and started to wander off towards the school gate. Samuel watched him for a moment, then let out a frustrated sigh and shut his book, hurrying after. Leaving school grounds would get him into trouble, but not as much as supposedly chasing Isaac off said school grounds.

 

* * *

 

“I don't have any bread crumbs!”

“What do you want me to do about that?!”

Isaac shrugged before running off after one of the ducks, hands outstretched as he tried to catch it. This little park was only a block from school, but Samuel had never had much interest in it. He had no interest in birds, ducks included. He liked dogs, but there was no dog park nearby.

After some time of chasing that one illusive duck, Isaac retreated to the edge of the duck pond and sat down, staring at the ducks with that rapt, excited interest that only a six-year-old could possess. Samuel walked over to stand next to him.

“Lunch is nearly over. Do you want to get in more trouble?”

“They don't teach us anything interesting,” Isaac whined. “I don't care about reading. Reading doesn't help.”

“Help what?”

“I dunno. It doesn't help. It's boring. That's why you always do it.”

Samuel let out an annoyed grunt. Isaac removed his shoes and socks, carelessly tossing them nearby, and stuck one of his bare feet in the pond.

“Isaac, no. The water's all muddy. Ducks poop in it.”

Isaac just pulled a face at him.

“If you fall in I'm not fishing you out.”

Isaac rolled his eyes, sticking his other bare foot in as if to make a point. Sam frowned and crossed his arms, waiting for Isaac to be done. After Isaac kicked his feet happily for a while, occasionally making cooing noises at the ducks in an attempt to lure them towards him, he leaned out to stare at something in the water.

“...Hey, robot! There's something shiny in the water!”

“No, there isn't.”

“Yeah, there is. It's all metal-ey. Like you. Because you're a robot.”

Samuel sighed and got nearer to the water to have a look at whatever Isaac was gesturing at. He was not particularly surprised when Isaac immediately tried to push him into the pond the moment he got close. It was not a successful attempt, as Isaac was significantly smaller and weaker.

“Are you done now?”

Isaac pressed his hands into Samuel's back and dug his feet into the ground, trying to shove him into the water. “Hng. Fall in!”

Samuel crossed his arms and waited for Isaac to be done. Isaac scraped his feet against the ground for a bit before giving up, throwing his arms above his head in frustration.

“Fine! Didn't want to push you in, anywa—“ Mid-sentence he lunged again, giving Samuel a sharper shove that actually succeeded in moving him an inch. Just an inch.

Samuel decided that enough was enough. He grabbed Isaac, hand under each arm, and lifted him off the ground.

“That's it. We're going back now.”

Samuel expected protest. Shouting. Whining. At the very least, he expected Isaac to try and squirm out of his grip. He did not expect Isaac to freeze up, all the colour flooding out of his face. Samuel frowned at him, then put him back down again.

“Isaac?”

Once Samuel let go of him, Isaac blinked slowly and shifted a little, like he wasn't sure where he was for a moment, before circling Samuel and prodding him in the back.

“I want a piggy back ride!” he demanded loudly.

“I just put you down.”

“Piggy back ride!”

Whatever got Isaac back to school. Samuel sighed and knelt so that Isaac could clamber onto his back. Isaac was grinning again now as he wrapped his arms around Samuel's shoulders, although his face was still pale.

“Mush, horsie!”

“If you call me a horse one more time I'll throw you into the pond.”

Isaac kicked him lightly in the side. “Mush, robo-horsie!”

“That’s barely different.”

“What part of ‘mush’ don’t you understand? You got an accelerate button on you, robot?” Isaac reached around and pressed Samuel’s nose. “Boop. Mush!”

 

* * *

 

Samuel's assumption had been that Isaac hated him. After all, Isaac seemed to dedicate all his energy to annoying him in various ways. For the most part, Samuel had either retaliated in kind or just ignored him.

And then Samuel got the news back that his mother was feeling better, and that he could go home.

Samuel only had a few belongings to pack. Clothes. Some books that were his and his alone. A picture of his mother and the dog he'd had when he was four. That was about it. He was putting these things in a bag when Isaac turned up, presumably to annoy him, and had instead seen Samuel putting everything away.

“...Are you going somewhere? Are you running away?” Isaac jumped onto Samuel's bed to look closer at his belongings. “I'm coming with. Foster care sucks.”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “I'm not running away and you're not coming with me. I'm going home.”

“Home? You don't have a home,” Isaac said dismissively.

“I do.”

“But you're here.”

“It's a foster home, not an adoptive one. That means I can go home when Mom can take care of me. Mom is fine now, so I can go home.”

Samuel went back to packing. It was silent for a few moments. Until…

“No,” Isaac said firmly.

Samuel paused in between tucking another book his bag. “...Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

“...Well, you don't get to say no. I'm going home. That's not up to you,” Samuel said.

He moved to put another book in his bag, but Isaac grabbed hold of his arm, putting all his weight into trying to stop Samuel from packing.

“No.”

“Isaac, stop that.”

“No!”

Samuel shook his arm, but Isaac kept clinging to him, so instead he transferred the book to his free hand and started attempting to pack with just that one hand.

This was the point where Isaac went into full tantrum mode. Screaming at such a pitch that Samuel couldn't make out the words. He was surprised his ears weren't bleeding. Isaac screeched at him and tightened his grip and started thumping his feet against the ground, seemingly dedicated to making as much noise as possible, as if that would somehow keep Samuel here.

A caretaker was brought in by all the noise, and had to carefully pry Isaac off him. Upon doing so, Isaac started thrashing about, hands still trying to grab Samuel, and he started yelling at the caretaker as well.

“Tell him he can't leave! He's not allowed! I don't want him to!”

“Isaac, please calm down—“

“Make him stay!” Isaac squirmed away when the caretaker attempted to gently guide him out of the room. “Get the fuck off me!”

The caretaker looked as surprised as Samuel was. Isaac, after all, had been nothing short of pleasant and quiet around the caretakers until now. He had to remove Isaac from the room so that Samuel could continue packing.

Samuel didn't see Isaac again before leaving. He was asked by one of the caretakers if he wanted to say good-bye, but Samuel said no. He wasn't particularly bothered about leaving Isaac behind, and didn't understand why Isaac was kicking up such a fuss.

That was the last time Samuel would see Isaac. The next time they met, he would be Locus.

 

* * *

 

When Samuel returned home, he was nine. And until he was eleven, things were what most people would call normal.

He lived in a tiny apartment with his mother. He didn't have a father. He had, once, but Samuel's father had left after his mother started getting tired more and more often. There were no other relatives. Samuel didn't know why that was. His mother didn't like talking about it.

Samuel didn't really understand what was wrong with his mother. The adults had decided he was too young to have it explained to him, and he hadn't cared enough later—as Locus—to consider it except in passing. He just knew that sometimes his mother couldn't get out of bed. Sometimes she disappeared from the house at odd times. She seemed to swing in and out. Sometimes she was attentive and warm and Sam had liked those times the best. Sometimes she was distant, like her mind was somewhere else entirely. Sometimes Samuel was left alone for days on end. When it got to longer, that was when a stranger would turn up and take Samuel to a foster home.

Samuel would try to pretend like he didn't need help. The first time he'd tried to pretend too long, he'd burned himself trying to cook food for both him and Mother. Locus still had burns on his hand from Samuel's mistake, pink showing up well against the brown.

His mother would get too tired to raise him, and Samuel would go into a home until she was better again. It had happened three times, with the last stretch—the one that had largely been spent with Isaac—having been the longest so far. He'd heard the adults—the sympathetic ones at least—say, when they thought he wasn't listening, that his mother needed time without burdens.

Samuel knew how to run the stove without burning himself, now. He knew how to feed himself and make his bed, and he knew how to make his mother breakfast, too. He did most of the chores, even when his mother insisted that she could do them. He hoped that if he did that, then he wouldn't have to go back to another noisy foster home filled with strangers.

He didn't want to be a leftover. A scrap of nothing to be tossed aside. He wanted to be useful. That opportunity would come, if not in the way he'd expected. Maybe not a way that Samuel wanted. But a way that Locus was glad had happened. Locus would have never existed without the opportunity, given by a man named Rhee Sebiel.

Locus had never cared much for the man himself, simply what he represented. Rhee Sebiel was bald and he wore sunglasses, a plain suit and always carried a briefcase. And that was about as much personality as he ever showed. He was all business, at least around Locus.

The first time they spoke, Locus—no, still Samuel—was his business.

 

* * *

 

Eleven-year-old Samuel came home from school one day to find the house empty, and this strange man with a briefcase sitting at their tiny table, drinking coffee. Samuel put his school bag down with a clunk, and the man turned to face him. He wore a small smile that may have been an attempt at friendliness, but came off as cold.

“Samuel Ortez, I presume?”

“Where's Mother?”

“She will join us soon. Please, sit.”

Samuel already had an uneasy feeling about the situation, but he knew that he wasn't meant to argue with adults. He could push around kids just fine, but adults were different. So he sat.

“Who're you?”

“That's unimportant right now.” Sebiel, as Samuel would later know him as, took another sip of his coffee. “I hear you've been in foster care before.”

“I don't need to go back,” Samuel immediately responded.

“But you have been there, yes?”

“Yes. I don't like it.”

“Well, you may have to return to foster care in the near future. I'm afraid your mother isn't doing so well.”

Odd. She'd seemed fine lately. She'd been pretty alert, and though she'd been leaving the house often she'd always returned before dinner. Sometimes she'd stared at him for a little longer than usual, but that was better than when her eyes were glazed and she barely realised he was there. Samuel frowned at Sebiel, who adjusted his sunglasses.

“Outer appearances can be deceiving. But your mother will need time without—“

“I can do the chores on my own. She can sleep all day if she wants to. I won't make her get up,” Samuel interrupted. “I want to stay here.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible. You know how adults are. But what I'm offering you is a choice on where you go afterward.”

“Will there be other children?”

“Of course.”

“I don't like other children. They're loud and dumb.”

“You don't have to talk to them. Although the children in my home tend to be of a more intelligent sort. But they'll all be busy. As will you.”

“Chores?”

“You could call it that, although I would refer to it as an... education.” Sebiel opened his briefcase, keeping the contents blocked from Samuel's view. He removed a manilla envelope and placed it on the table, pushing it towards Samuel.

“What's this?”

“Open it and see.”

Samuel frowned and opened the manilla envelope. Inside was money. Samuel was not sure how much, but he was at an age and his family at an economic standing where ten dollars was a significant amount of money. This was much, much more than ten dollars.

“...That's a lot of money,” Samuel mumbled.

“Your mother could use that money, couldn't she? Do you know why she's always tired, Samuel? Did you know there are remedies for it? Remedies that take a while to work... medicine and appointments... but there are cures. Very expensive cures.”

“Why are you telling me that? Tell Mother.”

“I have. But her receiving money for treatment, amongst other things, relies on you. Nothing comes free. I have a job for you. A job, an education, and a chance to help your mother. All in one.”

“Eleven-year-olds can't have jobs,” Samuel said. “It's against the law. They told me that when they explained to me how to know if I was being used for child labor by bad foster parents.” Samuel looked at the manilla envelope, then at the briefcase, and then at Sebiel himself. “Are you a criminal?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Criminals carry briefcases and money. They wear sunglasses inside. You're not subtle.” Samuel had seen it on television multiple times. “Why would you want a kid to do an illegal thing?”

“Well, children are... how do I put this? Do you know what the word malleable means?”

Samuel wrinkled his nose. “Clay-like? You can squish clay. And then put it in a lot of different shapes. That's... malleable, right?”

“Close enough. Children can be molded. They learn faster and their ethics aren't set in stone yet. Not to mention there's a lot of places a child can get to that adults can't, although...” Sebiel studied Samuel for a moment, before saying, “You don't seem like the charismatic type.”

Samuel just stared at Sebiel with disapproving puzzlement. Sebiel kept talking.

“Should you accept this job, there will be no backing out. You will live in a different foster home. One that I run. I'm very respected and I run a tight, clean ship. You will be with other children. You don't have to talk to them. And you'll learn a lot of cool things. How to be quiet and deadly. And when you've learned enough, you will get jobs. And that money will be split between yourself and your mother.”

“Deadly,” Samuel repeated.

“I'm sure you can guess what the work is by now.”

Samuel knew killing was wrong. That was obvious. He wasn't stupid. And he didn't like the idea of being a murderer.

“Are they bad? The... targets?”

“Possibly. But that's irrelevant. It's a job. You will not be the one choosing who lives or dies. Simply the one carrying out the orders.”

“I should call the police.”

“That won't stop the jobs from happening. It'll only make someone else do it. Plus, were I to be arrested here, your mother would get into trouble as well. Turning a child over to be trained to be a hitman isn't something society appreciates.”

“Did she really agree to this?”

“...She needs the money very badly, Samuel.”

Locus didn't feel anything when he thought back to this conversation. Samuel might have felt something. An odd, tight feeling. Like he couldn't breathe, for just a moment.

Samuel was silent, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling, but he kept eyeing Sebiel with that suspicious glare.

“If I say no?”

“Then I leave and you won't see me again. Your mother will receive no money. She will get sick again. You will return to foster care. Or adoptive care, if she gets... worse.”

“I don't want that.”

“Then choose what will benefit you.”

Samuel looked at the manilla envelope. Benefit for himself... well, that idea had some attraction. As did being able to help his mother get over her bouts of tiredness. He certainly didn't like the idea of being put up for adoption, or its implications.

But being a murderer?

He looked at Sebiel with a more thoughtful expression.

“Someone else will do the job anyway, if I don't?”

“Think of it this way. You know the saying 'guns don't kill people, people kill people?'”

“Yes.”

“Assassins are like that. They might perform the actual task, but they are hired to do so by someone else. If not you, then they will simply hire another person. You're the gun. But they're pulling the trigger.”

If it would happen anyway, it wasn't so bad. That was the logic running through Samuel's head. And the idea of being a tool, and just doing what he was told... well, Samuel was okay with that. That removed, for the most part, the initial reluctance. It was the final nail in the coffin. For a lot of people.

That was the day that Samuel was given the name 'Locus.' A codename. A name that Sebiel gave him. A name that employers would know, but only Sebiel would associate with him.

But he was still Samuel. The switch had not yet been flipped. He had not become Locus, only stolen his name.

 

* * *

 

He was taken there the next day. His mother hugged him before he left, but didn't seem to be able to look him in the face. Or maybe it was Samuel who couldn't do that. She had asked to accompany him there—just to see where she was leaving her son—but Sebiel had told her it wasn't allowed.

Sebiel's home looked normal, if unusually clean and large compared to the group homes Samuel had belonged to in the past. He was a well-to-do man in a well-to-do neighbourhood and presumably the neighbours thought nothing of his strangely soundproof walls and large fences. He was just a good Samaritan who liked fostering children and secure households. No-one looked too closely into these things.

Samuel didn't know what to expect inside. His imagination, boosted by youth and a significant amount of reading, imagined a whole heap of scenarios. Ranging from some terrifying rusted mess of torture implements and children poking other children with knives to a futuristic James Bond style room with a lot of glass and holograms.

For the most part, the house was normal on the inside. Enough to satisfy the curiosity of anyone visiting. There were enough bedrooms for six children, without having to double up. Sparsely decorated but with plenty of storage space. Samuel was given a choice of one of the three empty ones. He put away his clothes and books, and noted there was still lots of empty space.

For equipment, he'd realise later.

Sebiel stood there while he unpacked. Quietly observing. When Samuel was done, he finally spoke.

“I have some work to do, so one of the other children will show you around properly.”

“I can find my own way around,” Samuel said.

“You might be able to, but I would prefer you to have a guide. Just to be certain you don't miss anything.”

Sebiel waited for Samuel to follow him, before leading him to the room next to Samuel's. He knocked on the door. When there was no reply, he opened it. Inside, the room was clean and tidy, but there were signs of habitation. Different bedsheets, including a purple quilt, and what looked like a small robotics kit was sitting on the desk off to one side.

The window was open. Sebiel crossed the room and poked his head out. He looked down, then looked upwards. After a moment, he called out.

“Mason?”

A voice came floating down from the roof. “What is it?”

“We have a new student. Would you kindly show him around?”

There was a small clunk, followed by the tap-tap-tap of footsteps across the roof. Suddenly, a couple of feet dangled down in front of the window. Within moments, a nine-year-old boy was catapulting in through the window with the grace and ease of a spider. He landed on his feet before standing up as tall as he could—even for a nine-year-old, the kid was tiny—and stared up at Samuel. Samuel looked back with a thoroughly bemused expression. After a moment of that, the kid shrugged at him.

“Samuel, this is Mason Wu,” Sebiel said, gesturing at the boy. “He's the closest to your age out of the students, so he will serve as a guide for your first few days. Mason, this is Samuel Ortez.”

“Hello,” Mason said. He paused for a moment, looked up at Sebiel then back at Sam. He quickly held out his hand for a handshake. Samuel eyed the hand dubiously before reaching out slowly to shake it, feeling weirdly uncomfortable and formal as he did so.

“I'm going to return to my work now. Mason will explain what you need to know,” Sebiel said. He retreated from the room. As he did so, Mason leaned a little to the side to watch. He squinted slightly, a frown on his face. The moment Sebiel closed the door behind him, however, he relaxed a little and smiled at Samuel.

“Scary, isn't it?”

“Scary?”

“This, I mean. So much change at once? Don't say that to the others. They're older, and they're already doing jobs. They'll think we're children.”

“...We are children,” Samuel pointed out.

“But they say it like it's a bad thing. So we should try to be mature. That is a very important rule.” Mason paused again, before starting to count off his fingers. “We can't take guns out of the firing range until we are doing jobs. We have to do an exercise routine every day. And we are not allowed to cook unless given express permission, because sometimes new students don't know how.”

“I know how to cook.”

“Oh. I didn't know how when I got here. You're already ahead. Food is important. Because you need lots of potassium or your hands will shake when you hold your sniper rifle,” Mason said. “That's an important rule, too.”

“Do we have a firing range? And where do we exercise?”

Mason opened his mouth, then shut it. He pressed a hand to his mouth thoughtfully for a moment. “...I should have started with that. I need to start over.”

“Oh.”

“I've never been a guide before.”

Samuel looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I haven't been a student before, either. Not like this.”

“Right. But it is my job, as the older student—“

“I'm eleven,” Sam interrupted.

“But you're a younger student. Because I've been here for two years,” Mason said.

“...But that doesn't change—“

“It is my job to be your guide. So if you have questions, I need to be able to answer them. ...Do you have any questions?”

Sam considered this for a moment, then pointed at the window. “Did you climb onto the roof without a ladder?”

“Yeah. It's really easy here because the bricks are kind of old, so there's enough space to find purchase with your fingers if you're careful.”

“Is that something we learn?”

“We mostly get taught about how to climb with ropes. I just learned that on my own. It’s easier when you’re small.”

“...Can you teach me?”

Mason grinned at Sam. “Sure. It’s great for if you want to avoid the others. They’re all too big to climb properly now.”

 

* * *

 

They were homeschooled, with the highest quality teachers Sebiel could afford. But that was only the tip of their education.

They had to be fit. They had to be able to run and jump and climb. They had to be strong and fast, just in case they got into a fight in close quarters. They needed to know how to use weapons. Pistols and sniper rifles, primarily. Knives. Explosives. Poison. Diversions. Training in hand to hand. Being aware of surroundings. They were taught how to move quiet. How to kill quiet.

It wasn’t Sebiel that taught them these things. It was strangers who didn’t share their names. People who were in the house when they woke up and who left when no-one was looking. No names, just skills.

Samuel turned out to be a natural at firearms and stealth. He learned quickly, and he ate the training up. When he had trouble, Mason would stop and help him. In response, Samuel would help out when Mason got jammed on regular schoolwork.

He didn't know yet how he felt about the killing, no matter how much he was told, how much he repeated to himself, that it would happen either way. He adjusted to the idea. But he didn't actually think in detail about it much. But the training itself? It was... interesting.

This was the first time he'd been in a place where he was useful. Where he was good at what he did. He was alright at schoolwork, sure, but nothing special. He could only help Mason because Mason was still in elementary school. Samuel’s talents had always been restricted to scaring children. He had no interest in competitive sport, and he couldn’t recall anyone ever telling him ‘good job.’

He was not a burden here.

That was the word that had been used for him. His mother never said it to his face, but he'd heard other adults say it when they thought he wasn't listening. A burden. A problem to be left in strange homes when no-one wanted to deal with him. Something that would only make his mother more tired.

Not any more. Even when he needed help, he had something to give back to Mason. And as time went on, he needed help from Mason less and less.

He dedicated every moment to getting better at it, once he realised that this was something he could do. And not just at the physical side of things. He didn’t care to be better at schoolwork. He liked reading, but he didn’t like memorizing the themes. What was the point in knowing the themes of a story that a dead man had written? But here, there was practical value in everything. Given a layout of a few buildings, he could pick out good places to hide and shoot from easy because he knew the purpose of it.

It was almost… fun.

And it wasn’t just the training that was fun. At least, that’s what Samuel had thought.

There was also Mason. Mason was...

Locus would describe Mason as a partner. An ally. At times, a teacher. Mason would talk problems through. He was responsible. He also had a hot temper that flared up when things went wrong, and that’s when Locus could balance him out. Stop him from getting too off-track and get him back on the right road again.

They worked well together. And so they were partners.

But Samuel… Samuel, when thinking of Mason, would think more about after class. After classes were over, they’d sit on the roof. Away from Sebiel, away from the other children. And they’d just hang out. They’d talk—well, mostly Mason would talk. But Samuel liked listening. And sometimes they didn’t talk. Sometimes they hung out in comfortable silence. Samuel would read and Mason would fiddle with parts of the robotics kits he liked playing with.

When they did talk, sometimes it was about before. Samuel learned about Mason. Learned that his parents had been nice people, that Mason didn’t really remember how they’d died. That he’d spent some time in the orphanage, and been passed over for adoption regularly until Sebiel turned up. Samuel learned about Mason’s old friends, about Mason’s time here before Samuel had shown up.

Samuel didn’t tell Mason as much. But he did tell Mason about his mother. A little about the foster homes. Once, he even brought up Isaac.

Samuel had never liked other children. Not until Mason. Locus would have only described Mason as a partner, but Samuel would have called him a friend.

 

* * *

 

Mason’s first job came up a year after Samuel arrived.

Samuel wasn’t told what it was. Apparently this was par for the course. No-one told each other about their jobs. No details. It was all confidential. This was hammered in as part of their lessons constantly. Not with each other, not with anyone else. The only person they could discuss it with was Sebiel, and even then only until the job was done. Then they never mentioned it again.

Mason got called to Sebiel’s office, and didn’t have time to tell Samuel anything before he left. Samuel only caught a glimpse of Mason’s face. He looked nervous. Samuel supposed that made sense. What happened if you failed?

Samuel didn’t practice anything that day. He just waited for Mason to get back. Perhaps fearing, a little, that Mason wouldn’t come back. But he needn’t have worried. Because Mason did return.

Samuel watched him from the window. Mason entered through the front gate, and paced restlessly once he was in the front yard. He stopped, then kicked the gate. This was similar to behavior that Samuel had seen before, but he still hadn’t seen Mason look so agitated. He knew where Mason would go. Same place he always went, the place that only him and Mason could reach.

When he reached the roof, Mason was already there. Chin propped on his hands, staring off into space. He didn’t move until Samuel handed him a popsicle.

“We have popsicles?” Mason asked, looking at it with a perplexed expression. “Those are for kids.”

“It’s a popsicle, Mason. Not a five-pound bag of sugar,” Samuel said flatly. “Besides, it’s only frozen orange juice.”

“Oh.”

Samuel sat down next to Mason, holding a popsicle of his own.

For a long time, they sat in silence. On Samuel’s part, that wasn’t too unusual. It was usually Mason that talked. Silence on both sides wasn’t uncommon, but not on this uncomfortable level. Samuel tried breaking it.

“...Did your job not go well?”

“We can’t talk about that,” Mason muttered.

“Not about the details. You don’t have to tell me anything that would hold up in court.”

Silence fell again. Mason bit his popsicle in a way that made Samuel’s teeth hurt just watching.

“...It went well,” Mason said finally. “Perfect, even. I didn’t make any mistakes. Sebiel picked out an easy job, since it was my first time.”

Samuel said nothing, only waited for Mason to continue. Mason bit his popsicle again, staring off into the distance.

“I should be happy. I’ve trained for this,” Mason continued. “I got paid and I… I don’t know. Do you… do you know what I’m saying?”

Samuel shrugged.

“You won’t tell Sebiel? I… I don’t want him to know I’m… whatever this is. In case he decides I’m not cut out for this.” Mason bit the popsicle again, looking afraid. “I can’t go back to the orphanage. Ten-year-olds don’t get adopted.”

“I won’t tell. I don’t even know what you’re saying,” Samuel said.

“Yeah...” Mason raised his popsicle, then lowered it without taking another bite. He stared off for a few moments, then looked at Samuel. “...You want to go somewhere?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere fun. Somewhere that isn’t...” Mason scowled at the front yard, immaculately kept, before standing up. “Come on. I did get paid for the job. We could… you know, go hang out like normal kids do.”

“We’re not normal kids.”

“No, but no-one has to know.” Mason grinned. It wasn’t like him to be like this. Normally he was responsible. In the last year, Samuel couldn’t recall him even leaving the house except for school. Always so focused on learning or practice. When they did relax, it was always on the roof. “What do you say?”

“I have to work on firearms training.”

“So do I. But we won’t get thrown out for one incident. We’ve behaved until now. And Sebiel spent too much on training us.”

Samuel looked at Mason, who’d now offered a hand to him to help him up. Though, really, to make them accomplices. Samuel eyed the hand, then shrugged.

“Alright.” Samuel stuck his popsicle in his mouth before letting Mason help him to his feet. Once he removed it, he said, “Where are we going?”

“Uh… I don’t know. Where do kids go?”

 

* * *

 

They ended up just wandering. It would have been a bad idea if Mason and Samuel had been normal kids, in all honesty. The city could be a dangerous place, and that went double for kids who wandered into the wrong places. So perhaps that part of the plan failed. It was hard to feel normal when they both had guns concealed in their backpacks.

But it had been kind of fun. Wandering around with no purpose. That’s what Samuel had thought, anyway.

Thinking back on it, Locus considered the whole thing a waste of time.

It ended up becoming a pattern. The two of them sneaking out from underneath Sebiel’s watch. Not enough that he ever really cracked down on it. For the most part, it was taking detours on the way home from school. In doing so, they figured out where other children tended to go. There was a square surrounded by shops that was the popular local meeting place.

Mason made friends. Samuel didn’t.

The result was that, often, Samuel ended up sitting on the edge of a group of kids like a babysitting older brother. He’d almost forgotten Mason was two years younger than him, and that wasn’t even accounting for the fact that Samuel looked older than he was.

Samuel didn’t really mind sitting there quietly. Sometimes he brought along a book and silently read while the others chattered.

Most of them ignored him once they became used to his presence. The only kid who regularly tried to speak to him was a girl with frizzy blonde hair that made her look like a dandelion. Megan was her name. Sometimes, if Samuel wandered off for a few minutes to get a drink, she would get up and follow him.

She was a chatterbox. Enough of one to have made Isaac seem quiet by comparison. It worried Samuel a little, the amount of questions she asked about him and Mason. There were a lot of questions asked about Mason. He worried that one of them would spill something.

“Megan’s probably just being friendly,” Mason said, when Samuel brought it up on their way back. He fidgeted with his jacket for a moment before muttering, “She doesn’t ask me questions. You think she doesn’t like me?”

Samuel shrugged. “She asks a lot about you.”

“Really? Good things? What'd she say? No, wait, I don’t want to know if it’s bad. Let me imagine it’s better than it is.”

Crushes were something out of Samuel’s experience, so he just shrugged and continued to not understand.

 

* * *

 

When Samuel was fourteen, he was given his first job.

Sebiel called Samuel—still Samuel, not truly Locus—into his study and handed him a file without saying anything. Samuel opened it to find a photograph of a college-aged man, a note containing his name and address, and a layout of the area surrounding his apartment.

“Is this practice, or...?” Samuel started.

“It's your first job.”

“Oh.”

There wasn't much more to be said. Samuel's pulse might have quickened a little.

“It should be simple. The target isn't expecting an attack and his home is surrounded by buildings. I've marked the vacant apartments on your map, and there should be several more that'll be empty at certain moments of the day. Are you prepared, Locus?”

Samuel, pretending to be Locus, said, “Of course.” Then he said something stupid. “Why is this man marked for death?”

Sebiel paused for a moment before removing his glasses. He gave Samuel a very hard stare.

“You will not ask that question again. About any job. It is not important what they did. The important thing is that someone wants them dead and is willing to pay for it. Guns don't ask what their owners want. Understood?”

“...Understood.”

 

* * *

 

Sebiel had been right. It was an easy job. In theory.

Samuel located the building with the best view. He just walked in. He went during the day. If anyone had seen him, they just would have seen a regular fourteen-year-old. Should they have questioned the size of his bag, Samuel would have lied that it contained a school project. But he knew people didn't normally bother to ask. Too busy doing other things.

Once he was in front of the right place, an apartment that was currently for sale, he quickly picked the lock. There were no curtains, but that was alright. He was just observing for now. He found the window, sat down and watched the home of the target.

He watched all day. All night. And a large portion of the next day, too. He told himself he was just observing.

Locus did not remember what the target's name had been. After all, it hadn't been important who the man was. But he did remember a lot of what the man did, as mundane as it was.

The target, as if trying to make Samuel's job easier, had a tendency to linger near his window, peering out while drinking either coffee (if it was the morning) or a beer (if it was the evening.) Samuel realised through observation that the target was attempting to catch a glimpse at an attractive neighbour who also had never heard of curtains.

Samuel watched him eat. He didn't have very detailed meals in the morning. Just a bowl of cereal. It looked like the sort with weirdly-shaped marshmallows, because Samuel could—just barely—make out the little splotches of colour. Unhealthy.

He had friends over in the evening. They watched something on the television. Samuel would guess some form of sport, but he could be wrong. There was a lot of hands in the air and drinking.

He got up twice during the night. Once to go to the bathroom. The other time he sat down and watched television again. He stopped by the window and peered out again on his way back to bed. He forgot to close his bathrobe. It was disgusting.

Samuel should have shot then. It was the perfect moment. Clean view (well... unblocked view, he couldn't call it clean with a clear conscience) and there was enough light from the target's room to aim by. Samuel had already assembled the sniper rifle, though it felt a lot heavier than it had when he'd practiced.

He'd known he'd have to do this for three years. He shouldn't be hesitating. But he was. There was no going back on all this once he pulled the trigger.

It took him until mid-morning the day after he'd settled there. He set up the sniper rifle and pointed it at the man's window, and sure enough the man wandered to the window to peek on the pretty woman in the apartment across from him. Drinking his coffee from a blue mug with a cream-coloured interior, and cream-coloured patterning on the edges. Messy bed hair and a brown bathrobe, which he had remembered to close this time. One hand held above his eyes to block out the sun as he looked for the attractive neighbor.

Samuel aimed and took a long, deep breath. He exhaled. He pulled the trigger.

He knew enough about the gun he was using to know the result would be messy. But he hadn't been ready for the red mist, for the bits that splattered everywhere. The man hit the ground, only half of his head if that remaining, and started oozing blood all over the carpet. It mingled with the coffee he'd dropped.

Samuel packed up and left quickly and quietly. He didn't hear any sirens.

 

* * *

 

When he got home, he saw Mason waiting on the roof for him. Just like Samuel had done two years ago. When Samuel climbed onto that roof, Mason held out a popsicle made out of orange juice.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mason asked him.

“No,” Samuel said. He took the popsicle. He didn’t put it anywhere near his mouth. He just looked anywhere but Mason as the popsicle slowly started to drip.

He saw the explosion of red mist whenever he blinked.

They sat there silently for a while.

“Do you want to go and meet with the others? Megan said she’d be at the usual place today.”

Samuel said yes. He didn’t know why he said yes. Those were Mason’s friends. Not his.

There was something buzzing under his skin. Something making his stomach crawl. He didn’t know what. He just knew something was horribly wrong.

Samuel trailed behind Mason on the way there. Not talking, just thinking. Seeing the red splatter and blood mixing with coffee. Mason didn’t talk either. He just kept glancing back at Samuel, looking concerned.

Megan was talkative, as per usual, and didn’t seem to pick up on anything. Same for the rest of Mason’s friends. They sat down at a picnic table near the centre of the little square. Mason had to lightly push Samuel down to get him to sit down before taking his own seat between Samuel and Megan.

Mason’s friends talked about things. Normal things. Things that children should talk about. And with every normal word they said, the lump inside Samuel’s throat got bigger. The more his hands shook. He clasped them together to try and hide it.

He didn’t do well at hiding it, because this was when Megan took a second look at him and frowned.

“Hey, Sammy. You look terrible. You okay?”

He was fine. He should be fine. This is what he was being trained for. This is what he was.

How could Mason just… stand there and act so… human?

Samuel suddenly stood, pushing his chair out with such force that it toppled over. The noise made everyone else fall silent, staring at him like he’d just shot someone. For one bizarre, frightened second, Samuel thought they knew. But no, they couldn’t. That was ridiculous. That was… that was…

His eyes were burning.

“I have to go,” he choked out before fleeing.

He ran. He ran a few blocks until he didn’t hear footsteps or voices behind him, and then he stopped and ducked into an alleyway. He stopped and leaned against the wall, holding himself like he was trying to give himself a hug. His eyes burned, and they started to drip tears.

Locus did not like to think about this moment. He didn't like to remember that Samuel had been weak enough to cry over something so small. But at the time, Samuel—normally good at compressing any overt feeling—just had stuff leaking out and it all felt wrong, and it shouldn't have, because he was just a gun, this is what he was, this is what he was meant to be.

Samuel didn't move from that spot, didn't stop crying, for a while. He just stayed there.

Eventually, footsteps reached his ears. Mason barreled past the alleyway, before seeing him and backing up.

“Sam? You… you’re...” Mason looked a little spooked to see Samuel crying like that. He hovered awkwardly for a second before reaching out. “Hey, if you’re not feeling up to it we can—“

“I can’t do it,” Samuel whispered.

“That’s fine, we don’t have to. Maybe you just need rest, I mean… I know it’s… it’s rough, your first—“ Mason cut off, looking around warily, before trying to grasp Samuel’s arm, but Samuel flinched away.

“Stop. I don’t… I don’t need help. This is what I’m trained for. This is what I am. I’m a gun. I’m a gun.”

“You’re not—“

“Stop it!” Samuel clasped his hands over his ears and shook his head. “Just a gun! Just a gun. Just a gun. Just a gun.”

“Um… Sam?”

“Just a gun. Just a gun. Just a gun,” Samuel kept murmuring to himself, trying to block out Mason’s voice.

After all, a gun was just cold, hard metal. A gun does the job it was made to do, and that is all a gun does.

A gun doesn’t need people. A gun doesn’t sit on rooftops and meet with children and eat popsicles. A gun doesn’t squabble over pudding and DVDs, doesn’t get blackmailed into taking other children to the duck pond.

A gun does not feel. A gun certainly does not cry.

He was a gun, and Mason and those other children were treating him like he wasn’t, when it was his only reason for being there. His only reason to exist.

“Just a gun. Just a gun. Just a gun.”

The words repeated over and over, both out loud and in his head, like water circling a drain. He became aware that Mason wasn’t talking any more, and covered his face to block out the disturbed, pitying stare Mason was giving him.

He couldn't be both. He couldn't be Samuel and Locus. It was too hard. So Samuel shut his eyes. Locus opened them.

It was Locus who wiped away the traces of Samuel’s weakness and looked Mason in the face.

“I have work to do. I'm leaving.”

“You should… you should rest or something,” Mason said warily. “You… you don’t seem—“

“I’m fine.”

Locus turned and walked away. Mason just watched him go.

 

* * *

 

When he got back to Sebiel's house, he locked the door to his room before looking around. It had always been tidy. He'd never been much for decoration. But there were books scattered about, the occasional shirt crumpled in the corner, the photo of his mother and his old dog taped to the wall.

He collected any books that didn't relate to the work. Books of fictional stories, a cookbook that he'd been using to try and make something with more flavour, one about sword-fighting because it was absolutely impractical but he'd seen it in a movie recently and wanted to look it up. He collected them in a pile, and took them to Sebiel's library and left them there.

He tidied up. He made sure his room was empty of personal items. Finally, he came to the photo. He peeled it off the wall, staring down at it.

It was bizarre. Looking down at it, he missed his dog more than his mother, even though it had been some years since he died. The gate had been open and the road had been busy. He never left the gate open. Was it during one of his mother's distracted moods? Maybe it was just easier to remember the good things about a fluffy animal than a flawed parent.

Locus gripped the top of the photo, intending to tear it in half and throw it away. He stopped. He hesitated. Looked at his old family. Then his grip loosened on the photo. He opened his drawers and put it under a stack of clothes so he wouldn't have to look at it.

Good enough for now.

He was not fully Locus. But that was when the switch was flipped, and Locus became more than just a name. That was when Locus locked up the sobbing child who couldn't deal with being a weapon. Samuel was still there, peering through the bars of his cage and memorizing the details of targets and remembering the red mist and blue coffee mug with cream-coloured patterns. But Locus would think 'just a gun' and he would think it over and over again until it drowned out what remnants of Samuel there were.

Locus was a much easier person to be. Because Locus didn't think about the people he killed. Locus had no sick mother who'd given him away to a stranger in a suit. Locus had never been a burden.

Locus had never cried.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, uh… Sam?”

Some weeks later, Locus was fiddling with his sniper rifle. Disassembling it and examining the parts. Mason stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to hang out on the roof?”

“No.”

“...Alright. Uh, if you want to go hang out with Megan--”

“No.”

Mason sighed, pressing a closed hand to his mouth for a moment. There was frustration bubbling under his features, but he kept it in check.

“...Do you want to spar?” he said finally, looking defeated.

Locus considered this for a moment. “...Yes.”

They went to the sparring area and fought until they were both exhausted, and left it three to two in favour of Mason.

That was how it would be from then on.

Locus never snuck out with Mason. That was something that Samuel had done. It was unnecessary. Mason tried to get him to leave Sebiel’s home. Saying they didn’t have to talk to the others, that they could just relax.

Locus always said no.

Locus didn’t have friends. He only had partners.


	10. Flashback One, Part Two - Jake Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's had a lot of nicknames. He's been C.T and he's been Pillman. But that was all work. Once he was just Jake Hawke, meeting his father for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this got out of hand. I meant to write 9k to keep it equal with the Locus flashback, then I realised I needed to cover certain events, those events spiraled, and long story short this is like 19k. Oops. I will try to get the last of this round of flashbacks posted in two weeks, but I can't make promises because it is also so far from done. (But I wrote like 6k of this in a day sooooo... time is weird.) Also a lot of it is essentially first drafted so it might be a bit muddled here and there, but I tried to clarify it.
> 
> Also fair warning, this chapter will implicitly contain s15 spoilers (though not ones that are too heavy) via featuring certain characters.

He’d had a lot of names. Nicknames, mostly. That was the safer route when your family wanted to keep their distance reputation-wise.

He’d been C.T, and that was the name he’d been known by most often as a criminal. The one that carried the most authority. That was a nickname that had started with him and Connie, one that the Chairman used for big players in the conning business. Almost felt like approval. It got a little confusing whenever he was talking to Connie, though. Or worse, whenever anyone needed to address the both of them.

There was Pillman. He’d used that one a lot, too. That one had also started with Connie, but it had spread to be used with lots of the criminals he’d met before he became C.T. It had been used by druggies and dealers that he’d sold goods to, it’d been used by people who knew both him and Connie and needed some way to distinguish.

But once upon a time, he’d just been Jake Hawke. Usually just Hawke. His mother had hired help, and they’d all called him Master Hawke. His mother called him ‘baby bird.’ Even his father referred to him by his last name most of the time, but that was its own set of issues.

Well, someone else might call it issues. Hawke would have called it employment. But that’s getting too far ahead of himself. But it was with his father that it all started.

Hawke met his father when he was four for the first time. He remembered that day very clearly. It was one of his earliest memories, certainly the clearest from back then. He remembers that it was the first time that he had to wear a bowtie.

“It’s tight!” he whined, fidgeting as his mother tried to adjust his bowtie.

“This is what adults wear, dear,” his mother said as she checked his collar. Brushing off any dust that might have clung to the tiny, specially-ordered suit that he’d been jammed into. It was the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever worn. If adults had to wear stuff like this all the time, then he never wanted to be an adult.

“I’m four,” Hawke protested. “I don’t have to be an adult for at least two more years!”

“It’s just around your father. Can you behave around him, baby bird?”

Hawke pouted. “I don’t need a dad. I already know how to ride a bike.” 

He’d assumed for a long time that all children were taught to ride bikes by butlers or other hired help instead of their fathers, and only learned otherwise from television.

His mother laughed a little at that, still tidying his jacket. She had been wearing her business attire. An immaculate, expensive suit, polished shoes, simple but expensive jewelry. She wore that often, given that she was a powerful businesswoman in her own right. Not that it really mattered to Hawke at that age. His understanding of his mother’s work was ‘she went away with a suitcase and came back with the funds to buy him ice-cream.’

“Well… look, let’s sit down for a moment, okay?”

Hawke nodded before sitting on the sofa. His mother sat next to him. She was rubbing her hands nervously as she considered what to say. She didn’t do that much. She was a very confident woman, and it took a lot to make her nervous.

“Sweetie… do you remember what I told you about your father?”

“He's very important.”

“Yes, very. Now.” His mother smiled at him, and there was a hint of sneaky glee behind it. “Do you remember when I had that dinner party? Do you remember Mrs. Sanderson?”

“The old lady who smelt like powder?”

Nowadays, Hawke could not remember the old woman. Nor could he remember the faces of the many adults who visited his mother’s home. They all wore fancy clothing, and they talked about subjects he didn’t understand. But as a child? Oh, how adults melted if he played them right. And an adult cooing over a child was much more susceptible to suggestions. His mother had used Hawke’s natural child-based charm more than once to please her guests before pushing them towards what she wanted.

“You did very well with Mrs. Sanderson. You always do well. The problem is that your father... doesn't appreciate that sort of charm. Being cute isn’t what I need here. What I need is for you to show him how smart you are. I need him to know that you’re a clever child. That you could become someone just as powerful as him with the right coaching.”

“With the briefcases?”

“Exactly!” His mother finished adjusting his suit, then eyed Hawke’s hair with disapproval. “Oh, who let you do that? I told you, baby bird. No mohawks until after your father has left.”

“Mooom--”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me.” 

She got up and left the room for a moment, retrieving a wet comb, and returned to try and plaster down the fluffy little fauxhawk that Hawke had tried to style his hair in, although given his lack of hair-styling knowledge it just made him look like a surprised rooster.

“When your father gets here, what will you do?”

“I will pretend I’m happy to see him. I won’t hug him. He doesn’t like that.”

“If he holds his arms out, then it will be okay. But he’ll need coaxing at minimum. Pretend you’re impressed with him. Do not comment on his appearance, unless it’s in a positive way. Don’t point out his nose.”

“Why?”

“It’s… it’s just rude, that’s all.”

The doorbell rung, a set of pretty chimes. His mother looked up, nervousness flickering across her features before she smoothed her face back into the calm, smiling expression that she always wore when guests were present. She looked back down at him, having finished combing his hair flat again.

“Sit here. Don’t fidget. I’ll be right back.”

She quickly left, only leaving behind the faint clinking noise of the footsteps her polished shoes made. Hawke fidgeted for a moment, then slipped off the sofa and headed for the door, inching it open again a little and silently listening.

He heard the front door open, and indistinct talk. He couldn’t make any out until he could faintly hear his mother’s footsteps again, followed by a slightly heavier set.

“--and how is your wife, Malcolm? Is she doing well?”

“She is.” The reply was a little terse.

“No sickness? Nothing of the sort? Not even in the mornings?”

“Ms. Hawke, this... prying into the subject isn’t appreciated.”

“I was just concerned! About both your wife and her… lack of… well, how long have you been married? A long time to go without an heir, and you’re clearly very virile, so--”

“Whatever your implications, do you really think I’m going to replace her with you just because--”

“Marriage is hardly necessary, Malcolm. Overrated, in my opinion. But you cannot deny that your situation is unsecure.”

The footsteps were getting closer, so Hawke softly closed the door again and raced back to the sofa, pretending like he hadn’t moved an inch. He sat down, kept his back as straight as he could, and waited.

The door opened and Hawke’s mother walked back in, followed by a man in a black suit. In his early thirties, with close-cropped brown hair, pale eyes and one honker of a nose. The expression he wore was similar to that of someone who’d just gotten a big waft of shit and was trying not to show it. He didn’t look how Hawke had always expected a father would look like, but he only really had television to go from.

“So… you’re the boy I’ve heard so much about,” he said. He had a smooth, British voice that carried with it authority and the impression that he was used to people listening. He paused for a moment that was tinged with awkwardness, then offered his hand. “I’m Malcolm Hargrove. It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.”

Hawke reached out and shook his father’s hand. “Jake Hawke. Pleased to meet you,” he said in his best grown-up voice.

 

* * *

The three of them had tea. Well, his parents had tea and Hawke got hot chocolate. There was also cake. Hawke dug into that while both his parents picked at it. He was trying to focus on proving that he was smart, but he didn’t quite grasp the importance and honestly his cake was much more interesting. It was easier with his mother’s usual guests. He just had to be cute for them, and to tell his mother what they said when she was out of the room. (They never thought the small child was paying attention, but he was good at repeating things even if he didn’t know what the words meant.) But Hargrove was not melting at the sight of him. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Hawke wanted to ask questions. Why was Hargrove’s nose so big? Did something live in there? Could something live in there? What did he do that made him so important? How come he’d never come to visit before? But which questions was he allowed to ask?

“Are you a businessman?” Hawke asked, as he tried to get a bit of cake onto his fork.

“Yes. I run Charon Industries. We work with the military to produce weaponry. I also own other enterprises, but the weapons sector is my bread and butter.”

“Do you make tomahawks? I saw them in one of Mother’s books. I want one, but Mother said ‘no sharp weapons inside.’ Do you make tomahawks?”

“Well… on a limited basis, yes. We do manufacture tactical tomahawks. It’s not a big earner as some other weaponry but--”

“Can I have one for my birthday? I’m four. Nearly five. I will be old enough for a tomahawk then.”

“No, Jake,” his mother said sternly.

“What makes a tomahawk tactical?” Hawke asked curiously.

“...It’s for military combat. That makes it a tactical item,” Hargrove said after some hesitation.

“Do you carry a briefcase? Mother carries a briefcase. I can carry briefcases, too,” Hawke said seriously. “I’d be really good at it.”

Hargrove raised his eyebrows, then looked at Hawke’s mother. “Subtle.”

His mother shrugged. “He’s four. There’s time.”

Hawke poked at the remains of his cake before looking at his mother. He switched over to Persian before speaking, because his mother preferred he do that if he was saying anything that guests might not like. Probably because they'd never had a guest who could speak it.  


“ _ Can I go now? I’m bored. _ ”

“ _ Not yet, baby bird. Once he’s gone. _ ”

“ _ Can I at least take off my suit? _ ”

“ _ Not yet. _ ”

Hargrove watched this exchange. His expression was partially annoyed, but he was watching how Hawke spoke with a very close eye.

 

* * *

It was an overall awkward meal. In retrospect, Hawke wasn’t sure what else it could have been. Hargrove was not the sort of man who would suddenly profess a deep sense of kinship with a son he’d never met. 

Plus in those days--well, even in his later ‘aged potato’ days--Hawke would later realise that he was not exactly a unique case. That sort of wealth? That power? That honey-and-butter voice? It drew women in. It just so happened that today it was hawks circling overhead, trying to get a strip of flesh from the corpse. There were probably dozens of other illegitimate kids out there.

But that was something Hawke would realize later. Instead, Hargrove made his excuses to leave and turned to face him.

There was a pause, then Hargrove reached out and shook his hand again. Still wary, still awkward.

“Nice to meet you, Master Hawke.”

“I liked meeting you,” Hawke lied, even though the experience had been disappointing once he’d realised he couldn’t get a tomahawk out of the deal. The idea of a father had been overhyped.

“Good. ...Good.”

Then Hargrove left, followed closely by Hawke’s mother. Hawke, as per usual, waited a moment before sneaking out to eavesdrop.

“--regardless of that, the fact remains that this is manipulation, plain and simple.”

“It’s a business deal that works out in both our favours, Malcolm. Besides, who are you to talk about manipulation?”

There was a huff of breath. Hawke inched open the door a little so he could peer through, and saw his parents at the other end of the hallway. With Hargrove slightly hunched and annoyed, and Mother with her arms crossed, wearing a small smile.

“If you’d like to call this to an end, I am perfectly willing to do so. But I’d have to explain where the payments went, lord knows that my accountant won’t notice that drop in funds. And with that comes questions about who was paying me child support to begin with--”

“You are so lucky that assassinating you would be too much fuss,” Hargrove muttered. He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then jabbed a finger in Mother’s direction. “I’ll keep my options open. He’s at least not a dullard. But I’m not doing this again for another year, and you will stay silent.”

“Six months.”

“Ten.”

“Seven.”

“Nine. Nine months or never again,” Hargrove said.

“Well, I suppose that is a good time period. We’ll see if your wife manages to fight through what must be a crippling bout of infertility--”

“And you will not speak to me again until the eight month point,” Hargrove interrupted. “Good day, Ms. Hawke.”

He turned to leave, then paused. He turned back to Mother.

“Teach your son to either stop eavesdropping or to do a sneakier job of it.”

Hawke let out a barely imperceptible yelp and backed away from the door, shuffling away and trying to look inconspicuous. He heard the front door open and shut, then the click of his mother’s footsteps. She appeared in the doorway and gave Hawke an exasperated look.

“Jake, really?” she sighed.

“I was away from the door the whole time,” Hawke insisted.

That only got a doubtful look.

 

* * *

Hawke lived a life of many expectations.

This was due to both his parents. Similar in nature, though with small variables. His mother was more overt about it. Hawke was her only child, and she had never married. Had few living family members, and even fewer that she kept in contact with. Hawke was her only heir, and with it came pressure.

Hargrove, meanwhile, was really an extension of the pressure his mother put on him. To inherit from both of them would grant him more power than he’d know what to do with. Of course, his mother wanted him to inherit. Hargrove, on the other hand, had to be persuaded. That was a different kind of pressure. On one side, to be perfect for the duty that he would one day have. On the other side, to be perfect so that he could prove he was worthy of a different duty.

A lot of pressure for a child.

It wasn’t as if his mother left him to flounder. Everything she supplied to help in this goal of perfection was top of the line.

Longshore Academy was where he was schooled, and it was particularly well-regarded in the areas of science and history. His mother had always said history was important. It also had its share of extra-curricular activities. For an elementary school, in particular, the range of learning available was extensive. Three afternoons a week, Hawke was tutored by the best that his mother could track down, to make sure that his grades didn’t stray far from perfection.

On afternoons that weren’t spent being tutored, he was allowed to do extra-curriculars but never to slack off. No school afternoon or weekend went wasted. It may have been overwhelming for some children, but Hawke didn’t mind it. He preferred being busy to being bored. With that, he was… content.

One of his extracurriculars, however, was a nightmare for precisely that reason. He’d been allowed to pick a sport, and in a moronic move had picked baseball. Baseball, unfortunately, relied heavily on patience. Half of it was standing around waiting for his turn to swing a bat, and the rest was standing out in a field waiting for a ball to fly his way. He liked whenever he got to hold the bat, but the rest was awful. Hawke tried to quit, but there were no other team openings and his mother told him that quitting looked bad.

The other extracurricular? Cub scouts. That was much more interesting. At the very least, the parts that weren’t interesting passed by quickly. There, Hawke excelled. Not just because he had to, but because he wanted to. He’d jump at any chance to complete one of his loops.

Some of the loops were dull. Talk about healthy foods. Discuss God. Learn the Outdoor Code--that last one was all common sense anyway, there was barely anything to learn. But then there were the enjoyable ones. Find signs of animal and plant life during a hike. Tie knots. Once they discussed family and their task was to discuss a snack or dessert that related to their cultural heritage, and it was the best excuse to get his mother’s help in making a box of bamieh to bring in. (She was often busy, but she’d help with his homework and his scout activities when she could. Though often the butler had to help instead.)

There was also that one loop where he had to learn a magic trick. That had occurred around the same time as one of Hargrove’s visits.

 

* * *

“Pick a card.”

“What.”

Hawke retracted the cards he was holding out slightly as Hargrove stared at him over his cup of tea. “Uh… pick a card?”

“I heard you.” Hargrove looked at Ms. Hawke with his usual look of disdain. “Does this mean he’s considering a career change?”

“Don’t be rude, Malcolm,” she said sternly.

“I need my ‘Curiosity, Intrigue and Magical Mysteries’ loop,” Hawke said. “Well, I don’t really need it. I have all the requirements to become a Wolf scout once I finish first grade. But I want more loops. I also had to learn how to say my name in sign language and Braille.”

“I see.” Hargrove lowered his cup of tea. “Very well. I’ll… I’ll pick a card.”

Hawke grinned and started shuffling the cards as best as he was able. As he did, the phone rang. Ms. Hawke sighed and got up from the table.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She shot Hargrove a look that clearly meant he should behave and play along, then vanished into her office as Hawke finished shuffling the cards and held them out.

“Pick a card,” Hawke said, this time trying to inject some flair into his voice.

Hargrove did so, glancing at the card briefly before putting it back. “Do you know what that call might be about?”

“That?” Hawke glanced at his mother’s office. “That could be a lot of things. She’s been talking to someone about old stuff that was dug up somewhere.” He looked back, shuffling the cards again, before plucking the card and showing it to Hargrove. “Is this your card?”

“It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is!” Hawke said stubbornly before looking at it. Then he frowned. It wasn’t the card it should have been. “Oh.”

Hargrove watched him for a moment. Hawke shifted awkwardly, looking crestfallen. He’d been practicing that trick super hard. He thought he had it right.

Then Hargrove produced a card, seemingly from nowhere.

“Is this my card?”

“...What.” Hawke reached over and grabbed the card, looking at it. It was, indeed, the card it should have been. “I saw you put it back!”

“You did. But this is the card, isn’t it?” Hargrove held out his hand. “I can show you other ways of shuffling.”

Hawke handed the deck of cards over, now staring at Hargrove with an expression of interest. “You can do magic tricks?”

“Let’s just say that sometimes sleight of hand is useful,” Hargrove said, shuffling the cards in a way that was needlessly dramatic but damn cool to look at. “Especially when you know multiple businessmen who can’t hold their liquor and have some gambling problems. Also I thought it would impress women when I was young, but once I moved to America the accent did all the work for me. That’s between us, Hawke.”

“Why would an accent help?”

“It depends on the accent. Some appeal to people. Some… don’t. Grown-up oddities, I suppose.” Hargrove held out the cards. “Watch my hands closely, and see if you can follow how this is done.”

Hargrove showed him numerous ways of shuffling and of swiping a card or slipping it somewhere while distracting the other person. He wasn’t a good teacher, he got impatient easily when Hawke didn’t immediately pick up how to do it, but it was fun to watch.

When Ms. Hawke opened the door to her office, she eyed them for a few calculating moments before shutting her door again, leaving them be.

She didn’t join them for their scheduled tea meetings again after that, always making an excuse to be elsewhere. Hargrove still wasn’t entirely friendly, but he was more affable once she wasn’t present.

 

* * *

Hawke was usually a good kid. He maintained that he’d been pretty decent, as far as kids went. Most of the time he’d really tried to do his family proud.

Two problems, however. The first was that he got bored very easily. The second was that sometimes the official method of dealing with something didn’t feel like the right method.

For example, there was a phrase often used in regards to bullying: ignore it and it will go away. It was what teachers always told them. And any bullying brought to their attention only earned a gentle rebuke and nothing more. This was, quite frankly, bullshit. Hawke could withstand a little bit of bullying. But he didn’t like it when it happened to his friends.

It was this that landed him a visit to the principal’s office when he was nine. Not his first, but the first one that had gotten his mother called in.

“Ms. Hawke, I know you’re a busy woman and I regret having to call you in to see me. But there have been multiple concerns with Jake’s behavior and they can no longer be ignored.”

Hawke looked down, scowling, as the school principal talked to his mother. Nothing was addressed to Hawke, for the moment. Hawke fidgeted, the talk becoming faint as he played with something small, hard and white in his hand.

“Jake. Stop fidgeting,” his mother said quietly. After a pause, she wrapped her hand gently around his wrist, pulling his hand up so she could see what she was playing with. “...Jake, please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Finders keepers,” Hawke muttered.

“Not with human teeth. Give me that.”

Hawke frowned, but handed the tooth over. His mother plucked a tissue from the box on the principal’s desk and wrapped the tooth up. The principal watched with a slightly queasy expression, before he suppressed it and returned to his usual stern face.

“Your son punched another student and broke his front teeth. What’s more, according to onlookers he did it unprovoked. Stormed up to him in the middle of lunch and punched him.”

“He started it,” Hawke muttered.

“No, Mr. Hawke, he did not. You punched him in full view of three teachers!”

“Yes, I did,” Hawke said stubbornly. “Because they were not punishing him. I had to set an example.”

“If you have a problem with a bully--”

“You tell a teacher. I know. But they just tell the bully not to do it any more, and he does it anyway. Then they tell us to ignore him. They don’t stop it properly. So I showed them how to stop it. And I’m not giving his teeth back until he starts treating my friend nice.”

The principal pinched the bridge of his nose before gesturing at Hawke, staring at his mother. “I don’t know where he learned that this was appropriate, but this is only the latest in a chain of… questionable activities. He has also engaged in a significant amount of theft.”

“It wasn't theft. I gave everything back.”

“What has he been taking?” Ms. Hawke asked slowly.

“Small items. Pens. Notebooks. Sweets. He is correct in that he would give these things back. In fact, no-one realizes he was stealing them. There was just an oddly high rate of ‘dropped’ items that he ‘picked up off the floor and returned’ until he got caught lifting a chocolate bar from another student.”

“Which I also gave back. I don’t even like coconut,” Hawke said.

“We let that go with a warning since there was no proof that he’d kept anything, but… this is the behavior of a delinquent, Ms. Hawke, and it must be resolved. On violence in particular we have a zero-tolerance policy. I’m afraid a suspension is in order.”

Ms. Hawke frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Suspension? I understand the need for discipline, but that seems like an overreaction. Not to mention it would interfere with his education. Jake may have been out of line, but the theft is something I can talk to him about, and the altercation with that student seemed like a misjudged attempt to help his friend.”

“If we don’t suspend him, what message do you think we’d be sending, Ms. Hawke?”

“I don’t know, perhaps you’d be sending the message of ‘I don’t know how to deal with this child, so I’m going to kick him out of school for a few days and thus further torpedo his abilities.’ Finding an alternate method of discipline that actually gives my son a chance to learn from his mistakes, on the other hand, would still hold your zero-tolerance policy and also emphasize your skills for rehabilitation.”

“Ms. Hawke, this is not up for debate.”

“I’m only making recommendations. If you were to follow this line, I’m sure the other parents would appreciate the concern that this shows for their own children. I know I would. And I know that my gratitude is a very good thing to have.”

Hawke watched his mother argue with the principal. He knew that his mother was an expert at getting her own way. One couldn’t be a successful businesswoman without that skill. But somehow, he doubted that this would have any effect on the principal. To a boy whom which schooling was the majority of his life, the principal was an iron-clad god with no weaknesses. The principal’s word was law. The law could not be beaten. Stretched, but never beaten.

Then the door opened. The school secretary walked in, holding a phone and covering the mouthpiece.

“Sir, there’s a call for you.”

“I’m in the middle of something. Tell them I’ll call them--”

“Malcolm Hargrove is on the phone.”

The principal paused, then pinched the bridge of his nose and held out his hand. “Very well.” The secretary handed him the phone, and he looked at Mrs. Hawke with a weary look. “Do you mind if--”

“...Not at all,” she said after a moment’s pause, frowning a little at the phone.

The principal nodded, a somewhat forced smile on his face, before answering the phone. “Hello, Malcolm.”

There was two minutes of complete silence from the principal. It seemed almost like the world went quiet, like even the birds weren’t chirping as loudly as normal. The only noise was that from the phone, and although it was inaudible to Hawke he could recognize the sound of his father’s voice.

“...I see,” the principal finally said. “...Yes. Yes, thank you. Good-bye, Malcolm.” He lowered the phone, handing it back to the secretary, who left in a hurry. Then he looked back at Ms. Hawke, then at Hawke, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Let’s discuss these alternate arrangements for discipline.”

That was that. No suspension occurred, and nothing ever went on Hawke’s record explaining that he’d once assaulted another child. His mother promised to explain to him why what he did was bad, and he ended up not even serving a detention.

Once they'd left, his mother drove them home. She glanced at him a few times in silence before speaking.

“Baby bird… I am very aware that the anti-bullying measures most schools take are, frankly, a load of junk. But it takes power to change any system. Power that a child doesn’t have the time to build up. And you can’t just break a system because it isn’t working for you. Bend it, perhaps, but not break,” she told him, while Hawke peered out the car window.

“I didn’t know how to bend it,” Hawke grumbled.

“There’s always a way. You just can’t be so… overt.”

Hawke scowled, pressing his face against the window. Couldn’t break the system. Even his mother couldn’t do that.

But the Chairman could. It only took a two minute phone call to override the iron law of the principal and his zero-tolerance policy. A little moment in the grand scheme of things, but that’s when Hawke first realised just how powerful his father was.

 

* * *

By the time Hawke was ten, Hargrove had increased his visits to once every six months.

That was a good sign. A less good sign was that Hawke’s grades were starting to slip. He was still tutored. He still tried to study. And they weren’t bad grades, per se. They just weren’t quite perfection.

“Your mother hasn’t told me much about your grades lately,” Hargrove remarked.

As usual, they were having tea. Hawke still drank hot chocolate instead. His mother had tried to get him to drink tea, but it had tasted awful. He also still ate cake, but he’d learned to focus less on it and more on his father.

“Is that so?”

“I assume you’re not doing well.”

“...I’m doing well in scouts.”

“That’s not a grade, Hawke.”

Hawke didn’t answer, but he frowned a little and kicked his feet sheepishly. Hargrove eyed him, resting his chin on one hand.

“Why aren’t you doing well? You’re an intelligent boy, and you haven’t punched another child in a while. At least, not that I’ve heard. If you’re just being discreet about it, I won’t complain.”

“I’m doing okay. Just not… anyway, I don’t bully. Bullies are dicks,” Hawke grumbled.

“Language. In any case, you’ve certainly gotten more discreet in your eavesdropping. I haven’t seen you doing so in a while, and I know you well enough to know that you haven’t stopped. Finally caught on that you were blocking out the light by standing directly in front of the door, didn’t you?”

“...Maybe.”

Hargrove mulled his thoughts for a little longer, sipping his tea and gazing at the curtains with more interest than a paisley pattern usually warranted.

“Do you ever eavesdrop on your mother?” he asked finally.

Hawke squinted at Hargrove as he sipped his hot chocolate, drinking slower than usual in order to give himself time to think about his answer. Obviously he did. He eavesdropped on anything that he could. How else would he know what was happening? He eavesdropped on teachers, other students, the scoutmaster… if it might let him know a little more, he listened. And of course that extended to his mother. He didn’t understand everything she talked about, but he understood her businesses better than he once did. Understood that she put money into things and always expected something back, even if on the surface level it was a charitable donation. 

Even if the gain was only getting to learn more about archeology. She’d sponsored a lot of digs, a lot of museums. It was how she and Hargrove originally met. Perhaps that in itself had also been one of the reasons for the sponsorships.

“Why do you ask?” Hawke finally said.

“If you did… perhaps I’d have a favour to ask of you.”

Hawke sipped at his hot chocolate again. “I’m listening.” Listening wasn’t a commitment.

“I’ll put it bluntly. Sometimes your mother’s business interferes with my own. So far, it seems to be by chance. However, knowing your mother… she certainly isn’t beyond subterfuge. You are proof enough of that.” When Hawke frowned at him, Hargrove waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re offended. She’s been telling you to play me since you were four. My point is… I would like to know if she’s taking any direct action against me. And you are closer to her than any work associate.” 

Hargrove smiled slightly, although it was an action that didn’t quite fit his face. Like he was going for paternal but didn’t know how to. 

“I think very highly of loyalty, Hawke. If you show loyalty to me… I may be able to consider you as a viable option for an heir, should I produce no others.”

Hawke sipped more at his hot chocolate. Then he chugged it, to give him even longer to think. 

His mother always said that impressing his dad, getting in his good graces, was the most important thing Hawke could do during these meetings. And Hawke did know some details about his mother’s work that might be of interest. Knew the people she sponsored, the names of her associates. Knew details about those associates that might be of interest.

This was something that Hawke could easily do. He lowered his empty mug and stared Hargrove down.

“No,” he said plainly.

“And your reason for this?” Hargrove asked, expression unreadable.

“The reason is that I’m not betraying my mother. I don’t care if it gets me a pat on the head.”

Hargrove stared him down for a few moments. Then his faux-paternal smile took on a more genuine, amused quality. “Is that so? What if it was somebody else? What if it wasn’t your mother?”

“Maybe. But not my mother. Never her.”

“...I admire that loyalty, Jake.”

It was the first time his father had used his first name. So Hawke grinned as he refilled his mug with cocoa.

 

* * *

Hawke collaborated with his mother on collecting details of other businesses that were dug up, and figuring out what could and couldn’t be passed to Hargrove without endangering any of his mother’s work. Anything that could be passed on, Hawke did pass on.

In the meantime, school progressed. He went from elementary to middle school, middle school to high school. He continued with scouts, moving from cub scouts to the real deal. By the time he was fifteen, he was a Life Scout, and well on his way to earning a position as Eagle Scout. He also served some time as a patrol leader, helping to lead younger scouts. Bringing them into the pack.

So extra-curriculars remained fine. But grades were still a problem, and Hawke was pretty sure that a businessman had to go to college first.

It wasn’t like he didn’t try. But it was just so hard to focus on. It was so boring. With work, he could pull his grades back up to a B. But it wouldn’t be enough to get into a really good college. The sort of colleges that either of his parents had gone to.

His mother didn’t shout at him or punish him. She wasn’t that sort of parent. She fixed him with that disappointed stare, and sometimes she would mutter something about setting aside money to bribe a college with. She would push him into extra study time, but there was a point where all the extra time didn’t do any more good. It just didn’t quite sink in well enough.

Perfection was what he needed, and maybe it would have been enough. But when Hawke was fifteen, the final nail in the coffin hit.

Hargrove’s wife had a child. 

A legitimate heir, just when it seemed like it was never going to happen. This was one instance where Hawke didn’t need to eavesdrop. He heard his mother raging in her office quite loudly, overhearing a lot of colourful language about Mrs. Hargrove that he wouldn’t dare repeat in polite company.

Barring an abrupt death of the heir, that was the end of the game. And Hawke didn’t think his mother was quite that lacking in morals. Maybe if he’d been perfect, he could have expected to be prioritized over the new child. But not with his grades, and as admirable as his loyalty to his mother apparently was, it would do more harm than good now that there was another option. Eleven years of work, and it was gone.

It felt anticlimactic somehow, like practicing all season for the big game only to be benched for the finals.

When they heard the news, it had been two months until Hargrove’s next visit for tea. Hawke expected it to be the last. He may have gotten along better with his father nowadays than he once had, but he couldn’t call it familial love. It was like meeting a semi-pleasant but stern teacher or a neighbor that had once been in the war and was always half-thinking about it. There was always that hint of distance between them, no matter what friendliness was on the surface.

Hargrove kept his tea appointment. But it would not be the end of their relationship.

 

* * *

“I have an offer for you, Hawke.”

That had not been what Hawke expected to hear. What he’d expected, especially after ten minutes of straight silence leading up to this while he and his father drank--Hargrove with his usual tea, Hawke with his usual hot chocolate--was for Hargrove to officially break ties and move on to grooming his new child. 

He hadn’t expected an offer. He hadn’t expected anything.

Hawke said nothing. He just looked up at Hargrove and waited. Hargrove had his fingers laced together, and he was watching Hawke with a close stare, as he often did. Regarding him in the same manner as Hawke imagined a job interviewer would.

“Call it an internship, perhaps. An internship with the potential for greater rewards and responsibilities down the road,” Hargrove said.

“Internships are bullshit. Everyone knows that’s just unpaid work done for ‘the experience,’” Hawke said.

“True. An entry-level job, then. Call it what you will.”

Hawke put his drink down, crossing his arms and leaning forward.

“Is this a consolation prize? You want me to work for you, and eventually work for your kid? Is that it?” Hawke asked. While normally he kept an even tone around his father, he couldn’t help the bitterness that crawled into his voice.

“Whether you consider it a consolation prize is up to you. I would consider it a different but equal business. You see…” Hargrove paused for a while, thinking over his words. “Charon Industries is of course my primary business, and indeed I do intend to pass that onto my legitimate heir. But I have other businesses.”

“Are these the prisons?”

“No, that’s also linked to Charon Industries. I am referring to…” Hargrove hesitated, hands waving vaguely, before grimacing. “Businesses that, shall we say, Mrs. Hargrove doesn’t approve of. She would rather I not involve her child in them.”

“So… it’s either illegal or at least of ill repute?”

“Well, ‘ill repute’ makes it sound as if I run a brothel,” Hargrove huffed. “But… the former, yes. In certain areas. After all… a businessman must keep his head above water, or he ceases to be a businessman.”

Hawke nodded slightly. He wasn’t particularly shocked. Hargrove cheated at cards and had always possessed that slightly shady sense of morality. Honestly, so had Hawke’s mother. He’d helped enough with her business to know that it wasn’t 100% within the confines of the law, although in her case the stretched boundaries mostly concerned tax evasion.

“And… you’re trusting me with this. Trusting that I won’t just blackmail you with this knowledge,” he said, gazing at Hargrove.

“Well, should it come down to it, I know more than enough about your mother’s business to bring her down with me. But I don’t think it will come to that. If I didn’t think you were suited for this work, I would never risk it. The fact that you threatened blackmail rather than going to the cops... That's the type of shady thinking I expected from you." Hargrove's tone indicated that he meant this as a compliment. "You learn fast. You’re quick. You’re smart… no, not smart. Clever. The sort of clever that criminals need. You have shades of leadership. Don’t think I haven’t been listening to your scouts. And you won’t betray loyalty for a quick advantage, which is something that is… sorely lacking among my employees. This hasn’t been a quick decision, Hawke. I’ve been considering this for some time. And… training criminals young has worked out for a rival of mine. I think it could work for me as well.”

Hawke fiddled with the spoon he used to eat his cake, which this time remained untouched. “And… and what sort of work would this involve? Are we talking petty theft? White-collar crime? Smuggling? Murder?”

“I don’t plan to expose you to the entire organization at once, Hawke. You’d be introduced slowly. After all, you’re young and you have your education to think about. For starters… I was thinking some light courier work. But, I do want to make one thing clear.” Hargrove leaned forward. “You are never to say my name. You are not to bring up our connection. Even if you were to get arrested. I’m not on your birth certificate, Hawke. There’s no paperwork. Only payments filtered through a number of systems to pay for child support. If you get caught, I don’t know you.”

Hawke stared at the spoon he was playing with, pushing his fingers into the curved metal and watching the handle move up and down. “And in return?”

“In return, maybe there’ll be something for you to inherit after all. Maybe it isn’t what your mother wanted. But it will be something.”

Hawke felt that, perhaps, he should have felt more apprehensive than he did. And there was glimmers of it.

But crime has always had a dangerous allure to it. A shiny tint that lures people into watching shows about the criminal underworld and reading books about the things people have done, focusing on the money and the power and the thrill while glazing over the horror. And it was that which came to mind as Hawke considered it.

And he thought about knocking out that bully’s teeth when he was nine, and thought about a world where the law didn’t apply.

“What’s the first job?”

 

* * *

A simple job. The simplest. Piece of cake, Hawke had thought. He was sure it was only a test to see whether he could follow instructions. Pick up a package of pills. He didn’t even need to interact with anyone at the pick-up or the drop-off. He just needed to find the package, take it from point A to point B, and then Hargrove would know if he’d done it right.

Hawke rented a car for the job, since he was sure Mother would flip her lid if he took her car to a soon-to-be crime scene. He drove to the location. A junkyard, filled to the brim with rusted vehicles that had long since lost any chance at being fixed.

He parked some distance down the road before getting out of the car. Upon reaching the junkyard’s entrance, he headed deeper inside, stepping over bits of debris that littered the closest thing to a path. He looked for the vehicle that Hargrove had described. Brown with a white stripe.

The white was, at this stage, a faded grey due to the dust coating it. But otherwise, the car appeared exactly as described. Missing wheels, only a stationary lump of metal. Hawke glanced around before circling the car and approaching the trunk.

He tested it. It was locked. Hawke huffed before retrieving lockpicks from his pocket and going to work. As he did so, he noticed the lock itself was in peak condition.

He was too focused on the lock to notice his surroundings, until a voice spoke up right behind him.

“That’s my car, asshole.”

Hawke spun around, raising the lockpick like he could use it as a weapon, only to find a girl roughly his age. Ragged haircut. Cheap, stained clothes. The only item on her that looked of value was the knife she was threatening him with.

“You don’t look old enough to drive,” he said immediately. There was panic tightening in his chest--he’d never had a knife pointed at him before--and he immediately regretted those being his first and potentially last words.

“And the car’s got no wheels. Changes nothing about the ownership. So fuck off.”

Hawke didn’t move away from the car.

“Look, you can keep the piece of shit car. I just need to pick up something that I left in the trunk,” he said.  


“Hey, asshole. See the knife? Seriously, do you see the knife?”

“Yeah, I do. But that doesn’t change what I have to do.”

“Then I’ll put it simply. Go away, leave the contents of the trunk alone. Or I stab you, and replace those contents with your body. Your choice.”

Hawke gazed at the girl’s face. Her eyes hadn’t quite met his when she said that. He looked down at the knife. It was steady. If he’d only looked at the knife, he would have backed away.

Instead he grinned. The knot of panic loosened a little. “Haven’t run yet.”

“I’m going to count down from three.”

“You do that,” Hawke said, slightly patronizing in tone. He half-turned back to the lock, sticking the lockpick in again. He didn’t turn completely away from the girl. He wasn’t that stupid. But he was confident that she wouldn’t stab him.

He was technically right. She’d been lying about that. But he hadn’t prepared for her kicking him in the side with a hard, practiced blow.

“Ow, what the hell?!” he yelped, stumbling back.

“Warned you!” She lunged forward, brandishing the knife. Fear reappeared as Hawke stumbled a few steps back, the blade missing him by inches. He ducked to avoid another stab. But the second time he did so, he noticed her look of focus, and how the knife veered very slightly whenever she lashed out at him. He hadn’t misjudged her intent. She wasn’t aiming to kill. But goddamn, there was no chance he was leaving empty-handed.

He lashed out, swinging his fists at her. One, two, three. The first two blows missed as she weaved out of the way, the second one just barely brushing her. The third punch got her square in the chest and she stumbled back, wheezing. But immediately she dropped down and swung her foot out, catching him in the leg and sending him plummeting into the dirt. Before he could get up, her foot was pressing lightly on his neck.

“You got the hint now?” she asked roughly.

“Couldn’t have got it clearer if it was written on the bottom of this shoe,” he said. He studied her from his position on the ground. “...You got a name?”

“I should be asking you that,” she said. “Haven’t seen you around before. Who you working for? AOMS Pharmaceuticals send you?”

“Angel On My Shoulder? That where the pills are from?”

“You don’t even know that? Well, shit. Guess this place is really insecure if random assholes are turning up. Seriously, though? Who are you?”

“Does it matter? I’m just the pill man, lady.”

“Right. Well, Pillman, you can go tell whoever you work for that you found the place empty. And that they shouldn’t turn up here again, unless they want the rest of the gang on their asses.”

Her eyes flickered wrong as she said that. Barely perceptible, but there. And when Hawke didn’t immediately say anything, he noticed a slight fidget. A slight swallow.

“...There’s no-one else, is there?”

The girl kicked him. That was confirmation, if nothing else. It was a pretty hard kick, but she lifted her foot from his throat to do so. As he wheezed, she started fiddling with her pockets. She removed a key from her pocket and bent over the trunk.

“How’d you steal the stuff by yourself?” Hawke asked, voice slightly breathless.

She didn’t reply, focused on the trunk.

“I won’t tell. I’m just impressed. Sweet knifework, too. How come you’re working on your own?”

She opened the trunk and retrieved a bag from within before slamming it shut. She turned to go, and Hawke was in no shape to follow her. So he called out before she took more than a couple of steps away.

“I do work for someone bigger. I won’t say who. Just that I’ve seen your face. And… would Connie be your real name, or is this a fake ID?”

He raised a wallet, and the learner’s permit that he’d found within it. Connie’s eyes widened, and she reached for her pocket.

“When the fuck--”

“You really should kill me now. Or you could just give me back the package, and we can part on good terms. If you’re working on your own, then you can afford to disappoint your ‘boss.’ But I’ve got a lot riding on this.” Hawke sat up, holding out the wallet and ID. “You can have these back.”

Connie narrowed her eyes, approaching slowly at first. Then she dived forward and snatched her belongings from his hand. She took a step back, looking between the wallet and Hawke.

After a moment, she tossed the bag at him. It landed with a thud in the dirt, and Hawke heard the sound of thousands of pills being shaken in their containers. She spun on her heel, and stormed off without another word. Hawke grinned, but then flopped back onto the ground with a groan and spent the next few minutes lying there, feeling the ache of having lost the battle but won the war.

This would become the start of a beautiful friendship.

 

* * *

He took the pills to the drop-off point. The next day, his bank account had more money in it. That was that.

Hawke didn’t tell his mother about the job, nor did he contact Hargrove. If Hargrove had more work for him, then he’d find a way to get in contact. As for his mother… Hawke wasn’t normally the sort to keep secrets from her, but this was an area that he wasn’t sure she’d be okay with. She never brought up his chances at being an heir of Hargrove any longer, but she still kept the pressure on to inherit her own business, so grades remained something that still needed to be pulled up. 

So it was that Hawke started his double life. Most of the time, he was still the same he’d always been. Decent but not perfect grades, a patrol leader in the boy scouts, tutoring when necessary. But, to his mother and anyone else he asked, he would spend certain evenings ‘interning.’

He wondered if his mother knew. He was good at hiding things, good at lying, but that was only from fifteen years of watching her do it. She would know his tricks. But she never said anything.

That internship, at first, could be summed up as being a drug mule.

His father wouldn’t discuss business in person with him again for a very long time. Instead, he sent text messages on burner phones. He would text other numbers for Hawke to call to organize the drops.

For the first three months, Hawke would never meet another person while on the job. He just moved things, and money appeared in his account.

It was small, but he could almost see the Chairman giving him one of those rare smiles when they next met for tea.

 

* * *

Three months in, he experienced his first problem. 

He couldn’t say for sure what had tipped him off. Perhaps he’d crossed the same streets one too many times, or perhaps the dead drop itself had been compromised. One had likely lead to the other.

Whatever the reason, one day Hawke headed down his usual streets. Cut across his usual alleyways. Merging into crowds at times, then leaving them again. He’d thought he’d been doing a good job. But when he turned into an empty side street, one that he’d crossed multiple times before, he heard someone clear their throat with a polite cough.

He turned to see a gun pointed at his face.

“I’m sorry to do this,” the guy holding the gun said, sounding the absolute opposite of sorry. “But if you would hand over the money you’re carrying I would greatly appreciate it.”

Hawke couldn’t see most of the guy’s face. He’d pulled up his hood and covered the lower half of his face with a knitted, teal scarf that had a homemade quality about it. Hawke could make out dark eyes and see a few wisps of wavy, dark hair that had escaped from the hood. More notably, the guy was small--maybe Connie's size, maybe even a little smaller--and his voice didn't quite sound like it had broken yet. Young. It might have meant less of a threat normally, but didn't change the fact that the mugger had a gun.  


Hawke didn’t have a gun on him. He didn’t have any weapon on him. He’d never needed it, except perhaps the day that Connie had attacked him. Keeping a gun at home was too risky anyway. What would he tell his mother if she ever found it? The job so far had been safe, almost to the point of boredom. He’d forgotten the dangers.

So he slowly raised one hand, the other reaching slowly to remove his wallet.

The guy raised his own hand. “Oh, no, wait! No, not that money! I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said apologetically. “I don’t want your personal money. You’ve probably earned that, and I wouldn’t want to leave you penniless. Especially you, because I mean… just look at you." He looked Hawke up and down. "You look like you clean up in the dating game, and it’s important to treat dates to a good time. Hard to do with no money, although I’ve found picnic baskets are always a good alternative.”

“What.”

“No, I meant the drug money,” the mugger corrected him.

“...What drug money?”

The guy laughed. “Look, you're smart. I had a lot of trouble tracking you. So trust me when I say that I know what money, and don't make me splatter those smarts of yours all over the concrete." He nodded his head at his gun. “I wouldn’t want to take one of you off the streets for good. Bad for business, not to mention rude.”

Hawke looked at the guy’s eyes. It didn’t matter that the rest of the guy’s face was covered with that ridiculous scarf. The eyes were always the biggest tip-off as to whether they were lying or not. But it wasn’t like with Connie, where he’d been sure that she wasn’t serious about hurting him. This guy… his eyes were scrunched up in that way that said he was genuinely smiling underneath that mask. That could have meant so many things. That he wasn't taking this seriously. Perhaps that there was no danger to Hawke. Or that the idea of shooting him was entirely non-troubling.  


It wasn’t worth the chance.

“Fine. You got me.” Hawke slowly reached for his bag. The mugger watched him carefully as Hawke rummaged in his bag slowly, other hand stretched to show that he was still holding no weapon.

The envelope was pretty deep in Hawke’s bag. Silence descended.

“...So. How are you?” the mugger asked after several seconds of nothing.

“Really, man? Really?”

“Sorry, I suppose that is self-explanatory. You should get yourself a safer job. I only mug drug dealers and other people up to shenanigans.”

“Is that a code?” Hawke asked skeptically.  


“Well, it does feel less rude and they can’t go to the cops about it. But the money is a bonus,” the mugger said. “By the way, if you’re not going to quit, I recommend changing your dead drops more often and picking ones that are less observable. Also, if you need to do an in-person trade, there’s a diner around the corner that’s open twenty-four hours and serves really nice pancakes. Kind of greasy, bit of a guilty pleasure--”

“Stop giving me tips! I can do my job!” Hawke snapped.

“I was just trying to help…” The pout could practically be heard in his voice.  


“And why would I go anywhere that you recommended? That’s just asking to be re-mugged.” Hawke finally retrieved the envelope, lifting it up and holding it out. “There. Dick.”

The mugger kept his gun raised as he stepped forward slowly, before reaching out and snatching the envelope quickly. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, fingers feeling the edges of the envelope. His eyes lost that crinkled quality for a moment as he did so. Then he nodded and slipped the envelope in his pocket, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up again.

“I promise if you visit the diner that I won’t mug you. Scout’s honor. Have a good day!” 

“Hey, don’t use scout’s honor at me!” Hawke yelled after him, but he was already gone.

This was not the start of a beautiful friendship, but it was the start of… something.

 

* * *

Normally, Hawke got no input positive or negative after a job from the Chairman. This time, however, he sent his report and there was a response. A phone call. Just that on its own felt off-kilter. Hargrove had never called Hawke in his life. He was pacing his bedroom when he felt the phone go off.

“Explain what happened,” the Chairman said. His voice was cold.

Hawke explained, sitting down on his maroon quilt as he did so.

“Do you have a description for this… ‘mugger?’”

“Not fully, he was covering his face with a knitted scarf. Teal, maybe homemade? Dark eyes, saw a few wisps of dark, wavy hair. He was also weirdly cheery about the whole thing.”

“...I see. Is that all the detail you have?”

“That’s it.” Hawke waited for a moment, but the other end was silence. “...I didn’t steal the money if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know. The description is familiar. I was hoping for more to help identify him.”

There was silence for awhile, long enough that Hawke thought the phone had been disconnected. Then the Chairman said the words that children everywhere fear hearing from their parents.

“I am very disappointed in you.” There was a click as he hung up.

“Shiiiit,” Hawke muttered under his breath, putting his burner phone back in his pocket before flopping back onto his bed.

The dangers of the job had become apparent, but this didn’t discourage him from wanting to do it. If anything, it only strengthened his resolve. This was a challenge, and he wasn’t a quitter. His next order of business? Make it so he couldn’t be mugged again.

The obvious answer was to carry his own gun. Where would he get a gun? Where would he hide it? There were answers to that, of course there was. This was America, he could probably find a gun at the same place he bought his jeans. But as he considered methods of defence, he couldn’t get how Connie had used that knife out of his head. Maybe later, he would have realised that her style had holes in it. But to an untrained mind, she might as well have emerged from a kung fu movie to kick his butt.

He tried to push his mind back to more practical concerns. But then again, wasn’t knowing how to fight without a gun also practical? What if he ran out of bullets? What if he needed to be quiet? And wasn’t that method of fighting totally sick?

He sat up abruptly, clambering off his bed and leaving his room, only to grab the phone book and head right back. He couldn’t remember all the details on Connie’s learner licence. But he did remember her full name, and what fragments of her address he did remember could be cross-referenced with that.

He found one address that fit the bill, and a phone number to go with it. He dialed it on his burner phone, staring at the address as he waited for someone to pick up.

It was not Connie that answered, but rather an adult woman.   


“Hi, this is AOMS Pharmaceuticals calling to follow up on a survey about our recent advertising practices. May I speak to Connie, please?” Hawke asked, mimicking his mother’s best phone manner.

“Connie?”

“Yes. She does live here, doesn’t she?”

“I haven’t seen Connie in months.” There was a pause before the voice spoke with more urgency. “Was this an in-person survey? Did you see her? Where was she? What address was this? Which AOMS? What's your name? Was it you that--”

Hawke hung up. Too many questions, and answering them wouldn’t get him to Connie.

Back to square one. Maybe he should just find a karate instructor or something. But no. Now this was a challenge, and Connie already knew his face and that he was a criminal, so he didn’t have to worry about how to broach that subject. He just had to find her. But she could be anywhere.

Although, there weren’t many places a girl that young could hang out safely. Especially not in this city. Now that he thought about it, her clothes had been pretty stained. She clearly wasn’t living at home… but she was keeping things at the junkyard.

She’d been close by when he’d tried to swipe those pills. He could chalk that up to bad timing. But it seemed too unlucky to be pure coincidence.

...There must be a lot of places to hide in a junkyard.

 

* * *

“Hey! Connie!”

When he arrived, three months after their initial meeting, Hawke had a bag slung over his shoulder. He headed right back to the car with the faded white stripe. Once again, he unlocked the trunk of the car. This time there was nothing there. He slammed the trunk shut, the clunk echoing among all the metal.

“I know you’re here!” Hawke called out, half-truthfully. No-one would be here to hear him if he was wrong.

No answer.

“I’m not on a job, and I’m not trying to pick a fight. I just want to talk.” Hawke put down the bag and pushed it away from him, then raised his hands. “Didn’t bring a knife or anything. You’d beat me at that, anyway.”

He waited. For a minute, there was no noise. Then he heard movement. The noise of feet sliding down some debris before Connie emerged from behind a heap of junk. The knife in her hand was as clean and polished as it had been last time. Her clothes had changed, but they were still stained and dirty. She looked a little skinnier than last time. A little more tired.

“Come back to steal more, asshole?” she asked.

“If I was here to rob you, I’d bring a gun. But I didn’t. Check if you want.” Hawke nodded his head at the bag he’d put on the ground.

Connie eyed the bag, then looked back at him.

“Then what do you want? I’m busy.”

“To talk business, one-on-one.” Hawke slowly reached for his bag. “Brought some food and a thermos of tea, if you don’t want to go anywhere. Essential part of any business deal.”

“You think you can bribe me with food?” Connie asked, staring the bag down.

“With burritos and bamieh? Fuck yeah I do.”

“The hell is a bamieh?”

“Uh. They’re like… fried donuts cooked with saffron and rosewater? Kind of?” When Connie didn’t immediately respond, Hawke added, “The burritos are also from the good place. Not the one where they fall apart really easy.”

One more moment of hesitation.

“...Fuck it, I’m in. Come on.” Connie turned and walked deeper into the junkyard.

For a couple of minutes they walked, winding in between the piles of disused cars, old appliances, and whatever garbage had been tossed here. Finally, they came to an old, somewhat rusted bus. The door was missing.

“Watch your hands. The doorway is rusted to hell. You got your tetanus shots?” Connie asked as she climbed into the bus.

“Uh. Yeah.”

The inside of the bus was as dilapidated as most of the other stuff in the junkyard, but there were a few seats that still had some plush to them. A few from the back were missing entirely, however. In that relatively empty space was a couple of boxes and some blankets.

“...Do you really live here?” Hawke asked slowly.

“Well, it’s not my fault that a certain someone ruined my big meal ticket. So yeah. It’s where I live,” Connie said. She plopped down onto one of the seats and held out her hand. “Burrito.”

“Right, right… Mild or spicy?”

“Spicy.”

Hawke handed the burrito over, the foil still warm, and Connie shredded the wrapper and took a massive bite.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled, mouth still full. “I don’t even care if this is poisoned. This is so good. I’m going to die happy.”

Hawke unwrapped part of his own burrito as well, eating slower than Connie did. He’d barely taken a bite by the time she was half-done with hers. He took advantage of her distraction to look sideways at the belongings on the floor. Blankets, some bits of paper, a bag that was slightly open and clearly filled with toiletries. A box that had been tightly locked. He wondered how long she’d been living here.

Hawke ate half of his burrito before putting it down, retrieving a thermos and pouring out two cups of tea. As he moved to hand one to Connie, he noticed that she was now holding the remains of his burrito and eating that as well. He was more impressed than annoyed. He hadn’t even heard her move to pick it up.

Connie just shrugged at him before continuing to eat. Only once she was done did she take the cup of tea.

“I got sugar in here,” Hawke said, as he put out the little box of yellow donut-like treats. He started rifling for sugar.

“Do you just have an entire restaurant in there?”

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about,” Hawke said, tossing some sugar satchels at her. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re living in a junkyard.”

“Nope.”

“Your mom’s looking for you, y’know. You could just--”

Connie went white as a sheet. 

“You met my parents? Did you tell them where I was?!”

“What? No--”

“Because if you did, I’m not sticking around!” She clambered to her feet, ready to bolt. “What if they followed you? Fuck, I gotta--I can’t say here, I’m out! Fuck, where am I gonna find another shelter? I can't go to the homeless shelters, I know they check those!”

“I didn’t tell them anything!” Hawke said hastily. “I called pretending to be a pharmaceutical rep to try and contact you and when they asked where I’d seen you I hung up.”

“...Oh. Oh… fuck, don’t… just…” After a moment of pacing, Connie sat back down again. She looked less relaxed this time. Whatever good will had been won over with the burritos was undone. “They don’t know?”

“No. Jesus Christ, what’d they do?”

“You actually called my house? That’s kind of a stalker move, Pillman,” Connie said, ignoring the question entirely. She picked up one of the bamieh, examining it with a curious stare, then taking a bite. She froze for a moment, then stared back down as she chewed. “...Holy shit.”

“Good, huh?”

“So good.” She didn’t speak again until she’d eaten three of them, the tension disappearing as she did so. Afterwards she said, “Look, you may be an asshole, but I have to say. Your food choices are fantastic. So why do you want to talk to me so badly?”

“I could help you with your situation, y’know,” Hawke said. “How much is rent? I can pay it.”

“You’re a kid.”

“Yeah, but my pocket money is up there and… and I got a job, plus my boss gave me a bonus for the pill job. Which admittedly feels like it should be partly your money.”

“I don’t do charity,” Connie said, her voice taking on a chilly tone.

“It won’t be charity. There’s something you can do for me.”

“I’m not a prostitute,” Connie said immediately.

“God, no. That’s not… aghhh.” Hawke raised his hands. “Jesus, you really think I’m asking that? Am I that creepy?”

“You are literally a stalker.”

“...Alright, that’s fair. But no, it wasn’t prostitution. God. No, I’m more interested in your skill with that.” Hawke pointed at the knife on Connie’s belt. “You were amazing. I mean, I’ve never seen a knife fight before. How’d you learn?”

“Self-taught. Lots of practice. It’s a handy skill to have, especially… I mean, I grew up in a rough neighbourhood, y’know?” Connie stared at the wall for a moment, before she looked back at Hawke. “So, you want lessons? Is that the deal?”

“A month of lessons for a month of rent. I’ll throw in food money and stuff, too. Burritos after lessons. The whole package. It needs to happen at night, though. I can’t take time off my job and I’ve got a lot of shit going on after school.”

“I’ve never been a tutor,” Connie mused. “You good with getting cuts on your hands? You’re gonna.”

“I was born ready.”

Connie stared at the wall for a bit longer. Her mouth twisted into a grimace as she considered it.

“...And who would I be making this deal with? I don’t know your name.”

Hawke opened his mouth to say it, then shut it again. “...I shouldn’t tell you.”

“That’s bullshit. You know my name and I can’t know yours? What’s up with that?”

“If you don’t ask me again, I’ll also teach you how to lie better as well as help out with the rent. You’re not bad, but your eyes gave you away last time.”

“...I guess I’ll just be calling you Pillman, then.” She tilted her head a little, squinting at the wall, and begrudgingly nodded. “Well, I won’t lie. It gets chilly out here. And if I’m teaching you a specialized skill…” She held out the hand that wasn’t holding her tea. “Rent and lying lessons for anonymous knife lessons. Deal. Buy a lot of band-aids, because you’re going to need them.”

“Done.”

Hawke reached out and shook her hand, and they followed it up by touching the cups of tea together in a toast.

“This tea is awful,” Connie said afterwards.

“...Yeah, I don’t really know how to make tea? But, you know… it’s the business drink. Well, that or coffee. My dad prefers tea and my mom prefers coffee, so I just picked one at random. I prefer hot chocolate, honestly.”

“Business is weird.”

“So weird.”

 

* * *

A year passed.

He would meet with Connie three nights a week, and always go to school tired the next day. But it was worth it. They’d meet in the junkyard, even once Connie moved out of the rusted bus, and Connie would hand Hawke a knife and teach him what to do.

It wasn’t just swinging a weapon. It was how an opponent would move on instinct, particularly if they weren’t trained. How to scare someone off rather than hurting them, but how to scar them if it had to be done.

Hawke asked if Connie had ever actually scarred anyone. She said ‘once’ and didn’t elaborate.

The knifework... it filled him with similar adrenaline to the few exciting moments of playing baseball, and a similar sense of satisfaction to when he earned a loop or a badge. But cranked up to eleven. Soon, those knife lessons became the high point of his week.

Once they were done, Hawke would bring out the burritos and they’d eat. As they ate, he would teach Connie how to lie. How to talk, how to distract from the question. How to tell the truth while leaving out the right parts of it. How to outright lie without giving it away in her face. How to tell them what they wanted to hear. All things he’d learned from his parents. He enjoyed doing that, too, in a similar way to how he enjoyed teaching younger scouts. Connie was quick to pick it up, and didn't flip out on him when she got stuck on something.  


Hawke still didn’t tell Connie his name, even as his concern that she would stab him in the back faded. Too big a risk. 

In the meantime, he continued his school, his scout activities, and his drug work.

Hawke didn’t screw up another job. He never met the mugger again, and gave the diner that he’d mentioned a wide berth. He switched his patterns more regularly and made sure that any dead drops were only used on occasion. He delivered so many packages that he lost track of them all.

Nine months into the year, a full year after he’d started, his orders were switched up. Hawke was promoted to what Hargrove referred to as a ‘supervisor.’

Hawke would now visit people. Dealers and manufacturers that also worked for Hargrove. Though none of them knew Hargrove by that name, only knowing him as ‘the Chairman.’ Hawke would visit these people and gather information. To ask why they hadn’t met their quotas, or where a portion of their product had gone, or if the demand for certain drugs had gone up or down.

He didn’t hurt anyone if there were problems. Only warned them and went on with his business. If he warned them, visited them again and they hadn’t fixed whatever problem it was, then Hawke would pass on that information to the Chairman. Third time he visited, someone else would be working there.

He tried not to think about that too much.

None of them knew his name. They all ended up calling him Pillman, just as Connie did.

For that year, Hawke learned. For that year, Hawke worked. For that year, he stayed on the sidelines. He talked, he trained and he watched. Nothing more.

Then a bunch of assholes shook things up, and indirectly propelled him to the big time. He was only in tenth grade when that happened.

 

* * *

“You’re getting better.” Connie was examining a scrape on her hand, wiping at it with disinfectant and letting out little hisses as she did so. Hawke had accidentally slashed her hands during practice, and though the knives they used for practice were blunted it still left a nasty mark. Hawke had handed over his burrito as an apology.

“I’d hope so. Be pretty shit if I wasn’t,” Hawke said.

They were sitting on one of the rusted cars in the junkyard, which they had continued to use as a practice spot even though Connie had long since moved out of that old bus. She still wolfed down her food like someone was going to try and take it from her, though.

“I’m not sure if knives are really my thing,” Hawke said, fiddling with the practice knife. “I mean, it's really neat and all but I always kind of wanted a tomahawk?”

“A tomahawk? You can’t carry that discreetly. What are you, nuts?” Connie asked, giving him a skeptical look. “Nuts or stupid?”

“Neither. I’m just saying.”

“Well, I’ll go with stupid. You did think the teenage moustache was a good idea.”

“And I maintain that it’s going to look fantastic once it grows in,” Hawke said defensively.

“Right, right,” Connie said, grinning. “And how am I doing?”

“Well, you can lie to me just fine. But I say we go and find someone you can practice lying on who won’t have any preconceptions. You can predict my questions too well, you need fresh blood--”

Before Hawke could finish, his burner phone rang. It had never done that before when he wasn’t on a job. Hawke removed it from his pocket, eying it suspiciously, before answering. 

“Yeah?”

“Oh thank god! Dude, you gotta help me!” The voice on the other end was a panicked whisper. Hawke recognised the voice as one of the men who worked with manufacturing what they sold on the streets, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Just that he spent a lot of time sitting at a desk while chemicals brewed, usually watching sports on the television as he did so.

“I’m not working today,” Hawke told him. “Ask, uh…” Hawke strained his mind for the name of the other guy who worked with this man. “...Coffee Guy.”

“Nah, he’s dead, man! They got him!”

Hawke glanced sideways at Connie, who was watching him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. He turned away.

“Start from the top.”

“Bunch of guys broke in, what was I supposed to do? There was like… five of them. I dunno who they are, definitely not any of our guys. One spoke Italian, two of them kept making innuendos, one’s a nerd asshole and the one giving the orders sounded like he ate a bunch of sandpaper--”

“Is it clear now?”

“I… think so? They trashed the place and took a bunch of stuff and there’s a corpse on the floor, dude. The Chairman’s going to kill me!”

“He’s not going to kill you,” Hawke sighed, although he honestly wasn’t sure about it. “I’ll be over there in a few, just sit tight.”

“I’m in a cupboard.”

“Good. Stay there.” Hawke shut his phone with a click and jammed it back in his pocket before looking at Connie. “Do you know of a bunch of guys who--”

“Descriptions.”

“One speaks Italian, two of them kept making innuen--”

“Fuck, not those assholes,” Connie immediately grumbled. “Yeah, I know who you’re talking about. What damage did they do?”

“I think they killed Coffee Guy.”

“What.”

“Just tell me anything you know on them, Connie. I can’t take you to the lab, but they busted the door down, killed one of my guys--”

“Is this the drug lab halfway down Sandtrap Alley?”

Hawke blinked at her, mildly stunned. “How did you--”

Connie rolled her eyes. “You think I don’t know what that shit stinks like? Can smell the fumes, Pills. Your guys are not all that discrete. No wonder these crackpots found them.”

“Oh. ...Well, shit. Okay, guess you can tell me while you walk if you already know about it.”

 

* * *

Hawke had never seen a corpse before.

Honestly, he expected to be more shocked than he was. This was a man who he’d known, albeit only in passing and only for his amazing coffee-making skills. Even the corpse lay beside a couple of broken coffee mugs that he’d clearly been carrying when they got him. A knife had opened his gut, but there were bullet wounds as well.

“It’s so overkill,” muttered Hawke’s contact, who Hawke still couldn’t remember the name of and had internally named the ‘TV Guy.’ “It’s so intense. Like… so intense.” He had been coaxed from the cupboard, but was now curled up in the corner mumbling to himself. His voice was calm, but gave the sense that he hadn’t fully processed the gravity of a corpse being on his floor.

“Yeah. Seems kind of… unnecessary,” Hawke said, eying the numerous wounds.

Connie was looking down at the body too, attempting to casually cover her mouth and hide her nausea. When that didn’t work, she turned away with her eyes shut and headed for the other side of the room, putting as much distance as possible between her and the body.

TV Guy watched her, then looked at Hawke. “Uh… who’s the kid, Pills?”

“She’s a… friend?” Hawke wasn’t quite sure if Connie considered him a friend, but he liked her well enough and it was the quickest explanation. “She might know some stuff about the guys who did this.”

“Five guys,” Connie said, voice muffled by the hand still clasped over her mouth. “Used to be seven, apparently. But fuck knows what happened there. They’ve been causing minor ruckuses all around the city for years. Surge, Gene, Buckey, Cronut and Lorenzo. Any of those names familiar?”

“Uh. Maybe? There was one point where they might have said ‘Cronut,’ or they might have been talking about buying snacks after,” TV Guy said.

“How’d you know them?” Hawke asked Connie.

“Buckey lives in my old neighbourhood. Used to do chores for my mom. Really creepy guy. Hit on me a couple of times. I told him ‘over my dead body’ and he said ‘as long as it was still warm,’” Connie said grimly.

“...I think I’m going to throw up,” Hawke said faintly.

“Yeah, thank you! Jeez, I told my mom and she said--wait, fuck it, that’s not important. Basically, he’s creepy and needs to be in prison.”

“The Chairman’s going to kill me, dude,” TV Guy said, still curled up on the floor. “They took anything they could sell quickly and smashed anything they couldn’t. Smashed my TV, too, look at it!” 

“Well, got your priorities straight, I guess,” Hawke muttered, before starting to pace the room.

The room had been totally ransacked of anything valuable. Broken glass everywhere. Even if they did recover the ready-to-sell goods it would take weeks for this lab to be operational again. The Chairman hated wasted time, and more than that he hated monetary loss. A businessman must keep his head above water at all times, and every inch of water mattered. Hawke didn’t know if the Chairman really killed bad employees, but finding out the hard way… yeesh.

However, this wasn’t like when he warned a guy, left and hoped the guy took the warning to heart. This time, he had information that he could actually personally use.

“Okay. I have a plan,” Hawke said. “Connie, you know where these guys are located?”

“Yeah, but--”

“I’m gonna head over there and snoop around. Just enough to make sure that they really stole the goods. One of them talking about pastries isn’t grounds enough for the Chairman to send in some guys. I confirm that the goods are there, I get out and then I contact the Chairman. If he can recover the goods, then you won’t get in trouble, right?”

“Uh… maybe?” TV Guy said hesitantly.

“Time out! Pills, those guys have guns,” Connie pointed out.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Uh, no?”

“You sure you know how to scout a place?” TV Guy asked doubtfully.

“Uh, sure. Stare at things. Tell someone about the things. That’s my job, anyway. It’s just this time I have to be sneaky.”

“Huh, guess that is all there is to it,” TV Guy said, looking blown away.

“No. No, that’s not even close!” Connie protested.

“Should I come along?” TV Guy asked.

“Can you use a knife or a gun?”

There was a moment’s pause. “...I’ll stay here. Guard the… television,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the ruined box.

“Good. Just make sure no-one comes in before I contact you.” Hawke nodded to Connie. “Come on.”

“Uh, wait, Pills? Pills, you’re not gonna--hey, are you high? Did you eat the product? Is that where it really went? Pills. Pills, come on, slow down.”

As they left the house, Hawke gave the entrance a glance. The door looked a little kicked in and wouldn’t quite close properly, but it would look normal for a distance. No-one would be tipped off until day hit, at least. He checked his watch. 11pm. This needed to be done tonight, if he was going to manage it before anyone got any wiser.

“Do you think staking a place out is that easy? A good stakeout can take weeks!” Connie protested. “I staked out AOMS for weeks before stealing one damn package of pills, and I still almost got caught. That was just a pharmacy!”

“That was different, you needed to know their routine. I just need to know they have the stuff, and where they keep it. I don’t need to know how to get to it,” Hawke said.

“It’s not your responsibility. This isn’t even your job! Pillman… you’re a fucking kid. We’re both fucking kids. What are you gonna do if they see you?”

“They won’t see me.”

“You don’t know that! And you saw what they did to… to… hurkk--” Connie covered her mouth again, a choked noise escaping, before she turned and promptly heaved into someone’s flowerbed.

“...Sorry. Forgot that you hadn’t seen a body before,” Hawke said sheepishly.

“Not the point,” Connie said hoarsely. “Just gotta… get this out of my system…” After another few heaves, she straightened up and took a few deep breaths. “Alright… okay, think about this, Pills.”

Connie reached out and stopped him from walking forward, holding him still for a moment before putting her hands together, nose wrinkled as she considered all her points.

“We know that, at the very least, there’s five guys,” she said after some consideration. “Five of them, two of us. We know at least one of them is armed with a gun, at least one with a knife. All we have are knives, and even if we did have guns they’d be alerted the moment we took a shot. And finally… they’re adults. And children do not go against adults and win. They just… don’t. The best they can do--the best we can do--is hide. You see what I'm saying here? It's not gonna happen.”

"I'm not saying it'll be easy, okay? Yeah, outnumbered. Yeah, only knives. But." Hawke started counting off fingers. "The cover of night. The element of surprise. Whatever intel you can give me. My damn wits. I've got that. And I know from my d--boss that kids have made it in this business before. Honestly, baby criminals are a dime a dozen in this city, it feels like. I know it's not the best situation it could be... but this is the job I signed up for."  


"This isn’t a drug mule’s job.”

“No. But… if I’m gonna take over, I need to be able to deal with problems as they happen. And I need to be able to cover my guys. That dude in there called me and trusted me to solve this, so that’s what I’m gonna do. I can’t be one of those bosses that takes credit for the good and blames everyone for the bad. Besides.” Hawke grinned. “It’s a challenge.”

“...You’re insane,” Connie said. “You do realise that, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Alright, just making sure.” Connie huffed and threw her hands in the air. “Well, you’re not stopping, so fuck it. Let’s go. They’re at 8 Armada Street.” Connie passed by him and started stomping off in that direction, grumbling under her breath.

“Uh… you don’t have to come with. It’s my job, I’m not gonna bring you down with me,” Hawke said.

“I want to know ahead of time if my rent money is going to dry up, asshole. Besides, as your badass knife instructor, I’m kinda responsible for your safety.”

“Oh, you are not playing the mentor card on me,” Hawke said sternly. “You know what happens to mentors. They die so their student can grow as a person and be sad.”

“Oh, shut up. This isn’t Star Wars.”

“...Well, you’re not wrong. Fine, you’re in.”

“Fuck right I am.”

 

* * *

Armada Street was part of a warehouse district not far from the docks. They were the only ones on the dimly lit streets, but they didn’t bother to hide. Better to walk in plain sight and pretend like they were supposed to be there, even at this late hour. It would hold up from a distance, until someone got close enough to realise how young they were.

Connie was muttering under her breath.

“The docks. That’s so cliche. It’s like they just asked someone ‘hey, listen, I need to make a crime film, where do I put the final showdown?’ ‘Docks.’ If they’ve installed a sign out front that says ‘Legitimate Construction Company’ I’m going to kick something.”

“Do you know what they do here?”

“Honestly? Not a clue. They’ve got a cement mixer, I know that much. In fact… I think that’s it down the street.”

She nodded her head further down the block, where the shape of a cement mixer loomed near the front of a construction yard, peeking over the fence. There was a streetlamp not too far near it, illuminating a man standing by the entrance. The man was fiddling with a cigarette and a lighter, rather than paying attention to his surroundings.

Connie grimaced, grasping Hawke by the arm. She moved him so he was between her and the smoking man, before bringing them to a stop.

“Yeah, right place. That’s Buckey. You see any of your equipment or drugs? Maybe we can call it quits right here if you do?”

Hawke glanced over. As he did, Buckey glanced over his way as well. Buckey paused, head tilting as he gazed at Hawke. Not yet on full alert, but inquisitive. Hawke did his best to make his glance look casual.

“Can’t see much. No proof that these are the guys that robbed us.”

“Trust me, it’s them.”

“I need to be sure before I bring this to the Chairman. What if there’s a group of doppelgangers out there?”

“Unlikely, but alright. Then I guess we’re going in.” Connie looked over at Buckey, then grimaced. “He must have the keys. Well, at least I know this guy’s weakness. Stay back.”

“Weakness? You’re not gonna--hey! Connie!”

Connie was already walking straight at Buckey, her mouth set in a grim line. Buckey, who’d still been staring at Hawke with suspicious confusion, immediately gave a grin that made Hawke want to throw up when he saw Connie.

“Hey, Connie. Out late? Do your parents know you’re walking the streets? Not that I mind you streetwalki--hnrk!”

Connie, upon reaching him, kicked him square in the crotch. One punch later, and the guy was on the ground, completely out cold.

“...You call that exploiting weaknesses?” Hawke asked once he’d caught up.

“Well, his dick is his weakness. Figured it was a good a reason to kick him as any. You complaining?”

“No, honestly, hugely relieved that this is what you meant.” Hawke glanced around to make sure no-one had seen them, then picked up Buckey under the arms and started dragging him over to the cement mixer. He quickly rolled the guy up underneath, where the shadows would obscure him for a while. He took the keys clipped to Buckey’s belt before straightening up.

“Hopefully he doesn’t wake up for a few.”

“Hopefully he doesn’t wake up at all,” Connie grumbled. She crouched over him and swiped the knife from his belt, putting it in one of her belt loops. “That’s one dude I wouldn’t mind seeing buried. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

They slipped in through the gate, entering into a dark construction site. It didn’t seem like much was going on. A lot of the equipment looked like it hadn’t been used recently. It was easy, once inside, to see where the goods were. There was a storage shed deeper inside, and it was one of the only parts that were lit. Silhouettes were moving in front of it.

Hawke and Connie edged closer, crouching behind some old lumber and eying the storage shed. Two figures were going through a box, with one of them regularly moving inside the shed to put objects away. The other was chattering loudly and sitting down, examining the foods inside.

“Gee, Surge might actually be happy with how well we’re doing for once. Do you think we’ll have enough after this load? I mean, that’s a lotta… what is this? Uppers? Downers? Party drugs? I hope it’s party drugs, I love colours.”

The response from the other man was entirely in Italian and somewhat muffled by the walls of the shed, but that didn’t seem to dissuade the chattering man, who was examining a plastic bag of pills.

“These sure are colourful,” he mused. “Hey, Lorenzo, what’s your favourite colour? Mine is reddish-white.”

“Well, there’s your goods,” Connie whispered. “We done here?”

Hawke didn’t reply. He’d been about to, but his attention had been caught by the light shining from inside the shed. Specifically, the sliver of light from underneath the door. There was movement, which was normal. But then suddenly the light flickered, was blocked off entirely for a moment, and then there were no shadows at all. Abnormal movement for someone who should have just been putting items away.

Lorenzo didn’t come out again, nor did he respond as the other man continued chattering.

“Pills? You listening?” Connie asked.

Another voice called out from further in the construction yard.

“Hey! Cronut! You left your fucking candles burning in the bathroom! There’s not even a bathtub in there!” the voice yelled. “Don’t leave fire in a portable toilet, what the fuck?!”

“It needed scent!” the chatty man bellowed over his shoulder.

“Surge wants you to clean it up! Said lilacs isn’t a soldier’s smell!”

“Uncultured jerk,” the chatty man muttered under his breath before yelling, “Alright, I’m getting them! Hey, Lorenzo, put aside some of these colourful pills for later, would you? Sure Surge won’t mind as long as we have enough to pay for this revenge crusade.” With that, Cronut wandered off into the shadows, still grumbling about lilacs.

Hawke remained fixated on the lack of shadow underneath the shed door. Still, Lorenzo didn’t leave. 

“Wait here,” he whispered, before starting to make his way towards the shed, sticking to the shadows whenever possible and ignoring Connie’s whispered protest. As he moved, he drew the knife from his belt.

He slipped over to the shed, glancing around once more for movement, before inching open the shed door. When he saw no movement, he opened it further.

The storage room wasn’t roomy. It was packed full of shelves, and in turn those shelves were full of what looked like every drug that had been dealt in the city throughout the last five years. Clearly they’d been robbing more than just Hawke’s co-workers. There was no sign of Lorenzo.

Hawke took two steps forward, knife at the ready. As he took a third step, he suddenly heard loud, hurried footsteps heading towards him from outside.

He turned, expecting to see either Connie or one of Armada’s men. He did see a glimpse of Connie running towards him, and those were indeed the footsteps he’d heard. But what he hadn’t heard was the small figure dangling from the rafters, about to drop down between him and the door.

Hawke and the small figure stared at each other for a moment, as his legs dangled awkwardly in the air. Then the figure swung forward, grabbing Hawke with his legs and letting go of the roof at the same time so the force of him falling brought Hawke down with him. Hawke shoved the figure off him, but no sooner had he that the figure jumped at him again, knife in hand. Hawke swung his own knife, making the figure dart back until they were facing each other, both knives held out, occasionally darting forward to try and slash at the other’s hands.

As they both waited for a proper opening, Connie slipped into the storage shed and closed the door before pointing her own knife at the unknown figure.

“Who the fuck--” she started.

The small figure moved his knife from Hawke to her, then back again, before tilting his head slightly. Then he looked at Hawke closely. He was wearing a hood and had masked his face with a familiar knitted scar. The way his eyes crinkled up was also familiar. 

“I remember you. ...And you’re certainly not Cronut.” The mugger lowered his knife. “Did you get promoted?”

“...Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Hawke muttered, not lowering his knife at all.

“You know this guy?” Connie asked, also not lowering her own knife.

“He mugged me once. What the fuck? Why were you on the ceiling?! What are you doing? This isn’t mugging!”

“It’s not courier work either, but here you are,” the mugger said cheerfully. He glanced at the door before crouching a little. “I wish we had time to catch up. But there’s a job that needs to be done. I assume you’re also here for Surge and his friends? Oh! Did they steal from you? Did they rob that drug lab halfway down Sandtrap Alley?”

“Does everyone know about that lab?” Hawke muttered under his breath, crouching down as well.

“We’re scouting,” Connie said, following suit. “If you’re not them, it’s not our business what you do.”

“Maybe not. But it’s my business.” The mugger raised his knife again. “Sandtrap’s lab is a Chairman-operated lab, isn’t it? Pardon my language, but he’s been a little bit of a nuisance for my boss. ...I mean, you seem like very nice people, but an enemy’s an enemy.”

Hawke took a step forward, at the same time putting a hand out to shield Connie. “She’s an independant contractor. She’s got nothing to do with you or the Chairman. As for me, I won’t make trouble if you don’t.”

The mugger tilted his head, eyes sparkling a little. “That so?” After eying Hawke for a moment, he lowered his knife. “New deal. We keep a truce until we’re done here, under the condition that you help me with it. I’m a little short-staffed, and you two would bring the balance to four-three.”

“Three on both sides, with Buckey out for the count,” Connie said.

“Even better!” the mugger said. He rubbed his hands together, looking around at the goods filling the shelf. “There’s enough in this shed to overdose half the city, but I’m willing to let these spoils go as long as these fellows are dealt with.”

Hawke scratched his chin absently, staring around at the shelves. Enough goods to more than make up for the monetary loss of a wrecked lab.

“All of it?” Hawke asked.

“All of it.”

Connie said nothing, only throwing her hands irritably in the air. The mugger rocked on his feet for a moment, gleefully bouncing, before heading for the door.

“Well, if that’s settled… it sounds like Cronut is cleaning up the port-a-potty. Gene is likely also in that direction. So, how about you two handle that while I rustle down the leader? Go, teamwork!” With that, he opened the shed door and vanished into the shadows.

For a moment, Hawke and Connie just stared at the door.

“What the fuck was that?” Connie asked slowly.

Before Hawke could reply, the door swung open again and the mugger reappeared.

“Sorry, what are your names again?” he asked cheerfully.

“...We’re enemies. I’m not giving you our fucking names,” Hawke said flatly.

“Very responsible of you. I’m Florida, by the way! Nice to meet you!” He stepped forward, reached out and shook both their hands before heading back outside.

“...What kind of a name is Florida?” Connie muttered.

After a few moments, during which they could only shrug, they headed outside. Florida had already vanished. Since they’d entered the shed, another light source--this one much smaller--had appeared. It seemed to be caused by a bunch of half-melted candles sitting inside a port-a-potty. They could see Cronut crouched inside it, slowly extinguishing the candles and grumbling to himself.

An idea clicked into place. Hawke motioned for Connie to follow him, and they made their way around to what looked like a pile of rusted scrap metal. Hawke picked up a thin but sturdy metal bar from the pile, then crept up around the port-a-potty, just out of sight of Cronut as he mumbled.

Connie made her way around the other side. When Hawke nodded at her, she reached out and closed the port-a-potty door. She held it shut, even as Cronut let out a yelp and tried to open it again, and Hawke jammed the plank into the door handle, sealing the port-a-potty shut.

“Hey! Hey! Not cool!” Cronut yelled from inside, rattling his hands on the door. “Buckey, is that you? This isn’t funny! This wasn’t funny the first time or the third time! And it’s not funny this time, either!”

The noise was bound to draw attention, so Hawke and Connie slipped back into hiding spots. Connie waited by one of those big cement pipes, while Hawke hid by a bulldozer that looked like the treads had long since worn away. They waited as Cronut continued to yell and protest, waiting for Gene to show up with an intent to swoop in and grab him, too.

Then there was a quiet click from nearby, and Hawke’s heartbeat sped up.

“Did you realise we had security cameras, son?” a gravelly voice asked.

Hawke raised his hands. “Ah, shit.” He turned to see a shotgun pointed at him, held by a man who looked as grizzled as he sounded.

The man, presumably Surge, stared at him for a moment. Then he looked around. “And where’s the girl?” His eyes started sweeping over the various equipment. “Girl, you have until the count of three before I blow your boy’s head off. One. Two--”

“I’m here!” Hawke felt a mix of relief and fear as Connie stepped out into the open, hands also raised. She took a couple of steps forward, and Surge transferred his aim to her.

“Stay right where you are, missy. You’re not coming within crotch distance of me.” He looked between her and Hawke, mouth twisting in a grimace. “Always kids. The Director raising a new batch of brats, is he?”

“...Who the fuck is--” Hawke started.

“Don’t play dumb with me, son.”

“Yeah, don’t play dumb with him!” Cronut yelled from inside the port-a-potty. “...Can someone let me out?”

“We don’t deal kindly with you brats around here. I can deal with a little crotch-kicking--Lord knows that Buckey probably deserved it--but what you did to Lorenzo… one of my men! Well, I don’t plan on going the same way as Temple.” He pumped the shotgun and pointed it at Connie. “I plan on dealing with you the old-fashioned way: with a double blast of lead!”

“That wasn’t us! That was Florida!” Connie said, voice shaking. Then she lowered her hands and covered her face. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone! But… but the Director s-said…” There was a sob behind her hands. “He… he said if we didn’t work with him… it’s too horrible to even…” She lowered her hands, crocodile tears making her eyes appear huge and glassy. “We didn’t want to be criminals!”

Surge didn’t look sympathetic to Connie’s tears, but he didn’t look disbelieving either. The shotgun remained pointed, but his attention was fully on Connie.

“We didn’t see anyone else on the cameras,” he said, taking a step towards her. Silently, Hawke took a step forward as well, making sure that Surge didn’t get too far from him. Hoping that just his heart beating loudly at a hundred miles per hour didn’t keep Surge reminded of his presence. “Didn’t see no Florida.”

“That’s because he sent us here to be the distraction!” Connie cried, covering her face again. “We’re bait. Bait! He didn’t even give us guns! He knew we were going to die! But… but he threatened my parents, he said… he said…” Connie let out another sob and wailed, “I want to go home!”

Surge looked at her, then looked upwards, eyes scanning the metal shell of the half-constructed building. As he did, attention away from them, he turned somewhat to the side, gun not quite pointed at Connie any more.

Hawke took his chance. His hands darted out and grabbed it. Surge’s grip was still tight on it and Hawke couldn’t fully yank it towards him, the end result being the gun being yanked out of Surge’s hands but slipping from Hawke’s at the same time, instead clattering on the floor a few feet away. Connie snatched the gun from the floor and pointed it at Surge, who raised his hands.

“That’s my gun, girl.”

“Sit down. Be quiet,” Connie said, her put-on hysteria gone immediately.

“Missy… I don’t surrender. You best go ahead and pull that trigger, because it’s the only way you’re getting out of this,” he said.

Connie kept the gun raised. But her hand didn’t move for the trigger. The gun started to shake a little.

“...Haven’t killed before, have you?”

“Sit down. Sit the fuck down,” Connie said quietly.

Surge grinned at her and started to step towards her, hand reaching out for the gun. Connie took a step back, but Surge took two steps forward as she did. Hawke moved forward, still moving with Surge’s footsteps, and as he did he lowered his hand and pulled the knife from his belt.

Surge’s hand touched the barrel of the gun, and still Connie didn’t pull the trigger. But then Surge’s hand jerked back as Hawke jammed his knife square between the shoulder blades. 

Hawke yanked the knife back out, although it took an extra bit of strength to dislodge it.

Surge, somehow, remained on his feet. Somewhat wavering, but turning around to face him with the expression of a maddened bull.

“In the back?! Coward!” he bellowed.

Without thinking, Hawke stabbed Surge again in the front.

“...Touche.” With that, Surge collapsed. 

Hawke stared down at him for a moment, looked at the red coating his knife, and crouched to wipe it off on Surge’s trousers. His heart was still racing, almost to the point of being painful, but accompanying it was the same feeling he’d gotten whenever he got a home run in baseball, or earned a loop or badge in scouts. The same feeling as when he won a fight against Connie. It felt no different. When he straightened up, Connie was staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?” Hawke asked.

Connie just stared at him for a few more moments before lowering the shotgun entirely. She turned around, not looking at either Surge or Hawke. She stayed still for a few moments. Slow, deep breaths.

“...Guess we still need to find Gene,” she muttered.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that!” Florida’s voice chirped out. Hawke looked up to see Florida sitting on a wooden beam, kicking his legs a little as he gazed down at them. “Found him wandering about near the storage room. And Cronut is--”

“What was that noise? Lemme out! Are we winning?” Cronut yelled from inside the bathroom.

“That’s everyone!” Florida got to his feet, clambering down until he was on the ground. “Well done. Teamwork!” He held out his hand for a high five, but neither Hawke or Connie returned it. After a moment, he huffed and lowered his hand. “Okay, okay, there’ll be time for that later.”

“Were you spectating?!” Connie asked, her voice tinted with fury.

“You seemed like you had it under control,” Florida said.

“Well, we did,” Hawke said, glancing down at the body again.

“Then what’s the problem? Anyway, I’ll bring Buckey inside--he’s probably getting uncomfortable out there--and you can bring Cronut over to the storage shed. Okay?” With that, he vanished again.

Hawke looked at Connie, but she was still not looking at him. She eyed where Florida had once been, then turned and headed for the port-a-potty. She pulled the chunk of wood out and opened it, revealing Cronut crouched over the toilet with his fists raised. The moment he saw Surge’s shotgun pointed at him, however, he lowered his fists.

“Aw, man,” he mumbled, looking down at Surge’s corpse.

“Move it,” Connie said, jerking her head towards the storage shed. Cronut stared at the corpse for a moment longer, then obeyed.

When they got back to the storage shed, they found Florida sitting on one of the boxes of goods, waiting for them. On the ground, limbs bound, was Buckey and another man that must have been Gene. Gene didn’t look injured, just angry. Buckey was awake, but the way he was blinking suggested a concussion. He somewhat focused when he saw Connie approach.

“I feel betrayed. Connie," he sighed. "Thought we had something. The amount of times I cleaned your mom's house. Boom-chicka-wah-wah."  


Connie ignored him. Once they neared the others, and Cronut was shoved into a sitting position by the other two, she pushed the shotgun into Hawke’s hands.

“I’m done here,” she said, voice terse. With that, and without another glance at either Hawke or Florida, she walked away.

Hawke let her go. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Once she was gone, he turned towards the other three.

“What happened to Lorenzo?” he asked Florida.

“Don’t worry about it. The important thing is the present. What were your plans for these fellows?” Florida asked, kicking his legs absently as he watched them.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Gene muttered. “Kids. Why is it always kids?”

“Age is just a number,” Buckey said. “Maybe they’re--”

“Shut up, Buckey, this isn’t the time! I don’t care what your boner says!”

“Look, that’s not the way I meant it. This time. I’m just saying--”

“I knew I shouldn’t have quit those classes on interior design,” Cronut grumbled as Gene and Buckey started to squabble. Hawke stared at this, then irritably pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Honestly? ...I didn’t think that far ahead,” he admitted.

“No standing orders?” Florida asked, tilting his head. The look he gave Hawke… Hawke would later be able to recognise it as calculating. Even there, Hawke was somehow more thrown off by the lack of that telltale crinkle that suggested a smile than he had been when Florida was smiling in the most inappropriate of situations.

“The Chairman doesn’t even know the robbery has happened. I suppose what happens to them is up to him, but--”

Before Hawke could finish, three gunshots rang out and the argument was cut off immediately. Hawke immediately raised the shotgun Connie had left in his care, internally panicking when he realised he had no idea how to use it. Heartbeat accelerating as he waited for the fight. But no fight came.

“They’re really very lucky,” Florida said as he kept his gun raised, still pointed at the three corpses that had seconds ago been Gene, Cronut and Buckey. Each with a bullet in their skulls. “Temple did not get off so easily, from what I’ve heard. Always important to look after silver lining.”

Hawke said nothing, shotgun raised, even as Florida fixed his gaze back on Hawke. That look of blank, cold calculation remained as the seconds ticked by, and Hawke’s heartbeat didn’t slow down. Then Florida’s eyes crinkled up.

“Don't worry. Our truce stands for the next few minutes.” He lowered the gun, slipping it back into his holster, before withdrawing a knife. Not the same one he’d used in the fight earlier. This one had a serrated edge. “I’ll just gather my proof and be on my way. I’m sure you have people to call?”

Hawke said nothing, even as Florida crouched down and put the serrated knife to Gene’s pointed finger, lining it up before starting to saw down. At that point, Hawke looked away and removed his phone from his pocket.

He sent a text to the Chairman first.

 

**One body and numerous broken items at Sandtrap Alley. Four to five bodies and a storage shed of goods at 8 Armada Street. Send personnel ASAP.**

 

The next text he sent to TV Guy.

 

**It’s done.**

 

That one got an almost immediate response. TV Guy had clearly been waiting on pins and needles.

 

**ur a lifesvr pilz thx :O**

 

By the time he did this, Florida had straightened up and was placing three pointer fingers into a sealable plastic bag that looked like it should be used for sandwiches. There was already another pointer finger in there. Likely Lorenzo’s.

He turned back to Hawke.

“Well, I should skedaddle. Next time we meet… don’t expect me to be so pleasant, okay?” He took a few paces in the direction of where Surge’s body was, then looked back at Hawke. His eyes had that calculated chill in them again. “Tell Connie I said bye, won’t you?” Then he was gone.

Son of a bitch.

Not wanting to stand by a group of corpses, Hawke decided to wait by the entrance. He found Connie there, crouched by the cement mixer with her face in her hands. 

Hawke didn’t know what to say, so he just sat down next to her, placing the shotgun to the side. After a few moments, Connie lowered her hands but didn’t say anything either.

“My guys will be here soon. I don’t know if you want to be known by them?” Hawke asked after a couple of minutes.

“I don’t know. Probably not. I just… need to…” Connie covered her head again, rocking a little. “I need to just sit here and chill the fuck out for a second.”

“...Yeah. Alright.”

Connie wasn’t looking at Hawke. Hawke looked at her, then looked upwards.

“My name’s Hawke, by the way. Jake Hawke?” he said quietly.

There was a pause, then Connie finally looked at him. She didn’t say anything. She just watched him for a moment, nodded, then returned to staring off into the distance. They stayed that way for some time.

Hawke probably should have taken other things away from that mission. Perhaps relating to his misconceptions of how easy scouting was, or pondering how many times he nearly died that night. Perhaps considering that he'd just killed a man, and it felt like nothing. That Connie had watched it happen, and it hadn't been nothing to her.  


But instead he only thought one thing. He'd have to do better next time.

In his mind there was no question in his mind about whether there would be a next time or not. He knew there would be.


	11. Flashback One, Part Three - Carolina Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina was always just Carolina. But once, Tex was just Allison "Ally" Church and the Director was just Dad. Once there'd been a mother, but Carolina didn't remember that well. Just everything after it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This also got out of hand at 16k-ish. Whoops.
> 
> I'm not totally happy with how this turned out but it's a month overdue and the events are basically right. May need to come back to it.
> 
> Hooooopefully I can get the next chapter done in two weeks, it'll be back to regular chapters so it should be more doable (since I can delay scenes if I really can't write them during the regular stuff.)
> 
> This chapter contains some Season 15 spoilers.

Thinking back, Carolina didn’t really remember much about Allison.

She had memories, but they were few. It was more… feelings. A general sense for how things had once been. Thinking of them tended to make her resentful. Not because the memories themselves were bad, but because they were so good. There was just a sense that everything had been better when Allison was alive.

She remembers that, back then, she and her sister had still fought a lot. Still argued, still competed. She remembered that Ally had always been stronger than her. Always just a little bit stronger, a little bit smarter. But it hadn’t mattered as much. There had been envy, but there had also been admiration. As a child, even though there’d only been a year of difference, Carolina had tailed her, clung to her and demanded both competition and attention. Something that Ally had often obliged. None of the bitterness that would eventually submerge their entire relationship.

She remembers that her father used to smile. He hadn’t ever been a happy person, exactly. Not outwardly cheery, not the sort to declare that it was a beautiful day or to point out the positives. A quick temper and a tendency to swear if he thought his kids were out of earshot. But he’d smiled. He’d been kind, and when his temper ran short he at least managed to not direct the anger at his kids. Carolina also remembered that he used to carry around a video camera a lot, and that it had vanished once Allison was gone.

She remembers Allison working a lot of weird times, often leaving the house abruptly to do so. Her dad often worked at home, but regularly left to attend college classes in robot science. Or at least that’s what Carolina’s understanding of his degree was. She remembers a lot of babysitters, but she doesn’t recall ever feeling neglected or like her parents were absent.

The moments she does remember were very mundane. Most clearly, she remembers her mother brushing her hair, even as little Carolina wriggled around and complained because it hurt and she could be out playing and Ally never had to have her hair brushed. Allison said it was because Ally was a big girl who could brush her hair by herself now. That maybe next year Carolina would be old enough to do it herself.

She doesn’t remember Allison leaving the house for the last time. She could have been asleep or playing in the backyard. Even if she had spoken to Allison before she left, it wouldn’t have been a good-bye. Allison hated good-byes.

She remembers getting the news.

* * *

 

“Higher!”

“I'm trying, ‘Lina! I'm not that tall!”

Carolina reached upwards and strained her arms to try and reach the squirrel sitting on a higher branch. It was a futile effort. Carolina was four, and so had little chance of reaching the topmost branches of this tree. Even with the help of Ally, currently five. Although Carolina considered her older sister undefeatable, the facts were that Ally was not tall enough. Even while gripping Carolina and holding her up in something similar to a bear hug.

They were unsupervised as they messed around in the backyard. Half an hour ago they'd been watching television indoors with their father. Then the phone had rung. Dad had got up to answer it. After a few moments on the phone, he'd turned to them and said--in a tense, slightly shaky voice--to play outside for a while.

“Higher!” Carolina yelled.

“Stop squirming! Stop--”

Carolina ignored Ally’s words and continued to squirm, and Ally lost her grip. They both tumbled to the ground.

“‘Lina, I told you you were gonna make us fall!” Ally said, sitting up.

Carolina sat up as well, holding her face. “I crushed my nose…” She rubbed her face tentatively before lowering her hands. “We need a new plan. No, wait! A, uh, strategy! This is war now.”

“We can't use guns. It's not a war if you can't use guns,” Ally said.

“Nuh, I saw Dad watching a thing about old war stuff and there were these guys with big pointy weapons? They didn't have guns, they just had the hairbrush helmets.”

The back door of the house swung open and both girls turned to it, expecting their father to finally be done with the phone. But it wasn't their father who was there.

“Uncle Price!” Carolina got up and ran over to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the tree. “Uncle Price, you're tall. We need to catch the squirrel!”

“A squirrel?” Price looked up into the branches. “Oh, yes, I see. You must be observant to have spotted it.”

“I saw it first,” Ally grumbled.

“If we catch it, then maybe we can keep it as a pet.”

“Squirrels are wild animals, Carolina. They can't be kept as pets,” Price told her.

“But they're fluffy. Pets are fluffy,” Carolina told him, imparting evidence that was irrefutable in her young mind.

Price was a regular visitor to their home. Enough that Carolina, at the time, didn't realise he wasn't literally their uncle. However, although both her parents spoke rather cordially with him, they also made an active effort to keep Price from being alone with them. Sometimes Dad would talk to him outside and Carolina would try to peek through the curtains, but Allison would always pull her away if she noticed.

Once, when a babysitter was being arranged and the suggested candidate was the teenager from down the road that Carolina hated for the rather petty reason of ‘smelt like butts,’ Carolina had asked if Uncle Price could babysit them instead. Allison had hesitated before saying that Price was busy. Dad had just muttered ‘jesus christ no’ under his breath before returning to smacking his slightly malfunctioning computer with a newspaper.

Despite all this, Price was a regular presence and often joined them for dinner. He knew a lot of gross medical stories, and had learned that little kids loved to hear the disgusting details. These were stories that Allison encouraged while Dad grumbled about a ruined appetite.

Price looked away from the squirrel and knelt somewhat so they were on a more similar eye level. “The squirrel will be here when you get back. But right now… we need to talk to you about something. Could you come inside, please?”

“Okay.”

The two girls headed inside to find Dad sitting at the dinner table. Fingers laced together so tightly that the knuckles were white. He looked ghostly and tight-lipped and, in retrospect, like it was taking everything he had to keep himself together. But Carolina was too young to pick up on it.

“We saw a squirrel!” she told him instead. “Can we keep it?”

Dad said nothing. His gaze landed on Carolina for a minute, then focused on Ally. Then he looked away. His gaze was noticeably watery. Price passed Dad, reaching out briefly to put a hand on his shoulder as he sat down, before he turned to face Carolina and Ally.

“Allison. Carolina. There is no easy way to tell you this, so I will be upfront. We received some sad news. Your mother has died.”

He said this in the same tone of voice that he would have used to discuss the weather.

Neither Carolina or Ally said anything. Ally tilted her head slightly, a small frown crossing her face. Carolina just blinked at Price.

“Do you know what death is?”

Carolina had a faint idea. She'd seen a lot of Disney films, and they often featured bad guys plummeting off ledges and the heroes being put in danger of dying but always pulling through. It was something that, until that point, had been relegated entirely to media.

“Yes?” Carolina said, unsure. Still putting the pieces together.

“...How?” Ally asked slowly. Head still somewhat tilted. Her expression similarly puzzled.

Price didn't say anything for a few moments. Finally he said, “There was an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Ally asked, voice shaking slightly. Her stare getting angrier.

“When is she coming back?” Carolina asked.

Dad’s fingers tightened further, and he focused his stare firmly on the table. Unable to look at anyone sitting there. Price’s expression barely changed. No reaction except a slight exhale of breath. He faced Carolina, letting Ally’s question go unanswered.

“Carolina, Allison isn’t coming home. She’s dead. Dead people don’t come back.”

“They do if they’re good. That’s why Gaston dies for real but Mufasa gets to be a big cloud god,” Carolina said. As she said this, Ally pressed her hands to her forehead, hiding her face from view and saying nothing. “Mama was good. So she…”

Price tried to offer a comforting smile, although it didn’t quite work out. “I’m sorry, Carolina. That isn’t how death works. Death affects everyone, good or bad.”

Carolina stared up at Price, then at her dad, then at Ally. Then back at Price, since he was the only one meeting her eyes.

“No,” she said firmly.

Carolina slid off her chair and headed back for the yard, determined to capture that squirrel and sure of her own logic in the way that only a four-year-old could be.

* * *

 

Allison didn’t return. Carolina was the last to accept this as fact. That wasn't to say her family dealt with it any better.

Dad may have been the first to realise it was fact, if not emotionally accept it. He spent most of his time locked away in his study, and if Carolina peeked inside he was always watching videos of Allison. Fast forwarding through any parts that didn't feature her. He barely spoke a word to anyone else, and any food Price left nearby usually went uneaten.

The lack of acceptance was evident in the books that piled up on his bedside table. Books on any religion, not just those regarding Judaism, that might provide an answer for where Allison had gone. Theories on robotics and forms of science that could, in theory, one day conquer death. But all these books ended up on the floor once they had been deemed useless.

Ally was quiet for a couple of days. Going out of her way to shun Carolina’s attempts to cling to her. Sitting on her own with a small, puzzled frown. Staring at the pictures on the wall like she couldn't quite put it together. But once she did, once the confusion left, she got angry. Ally hadn't been a bastion of sweetness before, but she got downright bitter.

She kept running off at little provocation. She got more violent, often hitting the other children at daycare and acting up. She responded badly to anyone calling her Allison. If anyone did so, it usually resulted in a bellowed ‘no!’ followed by a kick to the shins and Ally running off to the most difficult to reach place. There was always a particularly vicious kick whenever Price tried to calm her down.

For his part, Price rarely seemed to leave their home. He didn’t change much in demeanor, seemed to be the same outwardly that he’d always been. But he tended to spend a lot of time trying to coax Ally into opening up or getting Dad to eat and sleep at the right times. He also spoke to Carolina, but that was more to get a general read on how she was doing.

There was a funeral. Carolina still didn’t really believe Allison was gone for good during it.

Closed casket. A lot of bluebonnets. People got up and talked. Relatives that Carolina didn’t often see, and would almost never see again afterwards now that the primary link between them was buried in the ground. Carolina clung to her father’s hand, while Ally held onto his other one. Dad’s grip was tight. A little too tight for comfort. Price was there, but he stood at the back and stayed out of the way.

Carolina doesn’t remember what was said of Allison. What fragments she does remember seemed very impersonal. Allison was a good person, loved by many. Allison was taken too young, at the age of twenty-four. Not a bad word was said, and that only enforced in Carolina’s mind that this wasn’t for good. Good people didn’t die. Good people came back, even if it took a while.

No-one talked about how she died, other than to say that it was a tragic accident. One of Carolina’s grand-aunts told her that Allison was in a better place now.

“My parents are very happy and Mama would not leave because we have the best place,” Carolina told her firmly. “She’s just not here right now.”

The grand-aunt hadn’t really come up with more words after that.

It wasn’t until after the funeral that it all really started to catch up.

Carolina couldn’t sleep that night.

She tried. She tossed and turned, she clung tightly to her favourite toy--a G.I Joe action figure that she had draped some Barbie clothes over because she'd wanted a muscular Barbie but couldn't find one--even though it wasn’t comfortable to hug and she always ended up waking up with it poking her side when she took it to bed. She spent some time trying to make a blanket fort, but she didn’t have enough. She thought about waking up Ally, but Ally had been angry lately and it scared her a little.

Eventually, she got up and headed for her father’s bedroom. She’d jumped on the bed and demanded to share multiple times before, particularly when Allison was present. Sometimes Ally had joined in.

Carolina found the bed empty. Further exploration of the house resulted in her finding her father standing at the window in the living room, holding a cold mug of tea and staring blankly out the window.

“Go to bed, Carolina,” he said once he heard Carolina’s light footsteps behind him.

“Can’t sleep. You go to bed.”

Dad let out a long sigh. “Can’t sleep.”

“How come you can stay up and I can’t?”

Carolina expected the usual ‘I’m an adult’ reasoning, but Dad just shrugged. Carolina approached and pressed her face against the window. It was too dark to see anything.

After they stood there for a while, Dad looked into his mug and frowned before heading for the kitchen. Carolina trotted after him, sitting down at the kitchen table as Dad moved around, making a new cup of tea.

Dad didn't say anything or particularly acknowledge Carolina’s presence for a while. But he made a cup of warm cocoa as well, dropping in a few tiny marshmallows, before wordlessly placing it in front of Carolina. Carolina poked at one of the marshmallows, watching it bob up and down, while Dad sat opposite her at the table, much like they had a week ago when Price told her that Mama was gone.

Dad looked very tired. He had never looked tired before. Not like this. He was grumpy a lot. Mama said that was just how he was. Sometimes he would smack his computer and yell words that Carolina had to pretend she didn't hear. But now he didn't look angry or grumpy. Just tired.

Carolina stared up at Dad and how sad he was. Why didn't he know the rules? Good people came back. But when? Why wasn't Mama back now? Would Carolina have to wait until she was an adult, like Simba did before Mufasa came back as a cloud god?

Or was Price right? Was it like when Ally, during an argument over who got to play with a favourite toy, told Carolina out of pure spite that Santa Claus wasn't real. Carolina had ignored this revelation until looking at old photos of her and Ally with the Santa at the mall and realising that each year’s Santa was a different man.

Her dad was the smartest person in the world. He was so smart that he still went to school to learn how to make robot science. He was a robot master, or working at being one. Price was someone who Carolina could ignore. Price used a lot of words, but he could not be as smart as her dad because no-one was. But her dad?

“Is Mama really not coming back?” Carolina asked.

Dad looked at her. Then down again. He removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. Eyes that he and Carolina shared but that Mama and Ally did not. Green shot with red. Christmas colours, like fake Santa.

He still said nothing. Instead, he reached over and put his hand over Carolina’s, like he had at the funeral that day. This time his grip wasn't tight. Much lighter, but still firm. He couldn't find the words for what he wanted to say.

Dad always had words. Often angry words, but still words.

“Dad?”

He didn’t say anything else. He just shook his head, covering his eyes with his free hand. Tears were leaking down his face despite this. Carolina had never seen her father cry before. Not even at the funeral.

Mama wasn’t coming back.

Carolina didn’t know what to do or say. Didn’t even truly know how to feel. This sort of grief was beyond her, was too strong, too alien to comprehend. She did the first thing that came to mind. She got off her chair, headed for Dad and clambered into his lap before clinging to him with all that she had. As if letting go would result in him slipping off and vanishing forever like Allison had done.

Carolina remembers that moment. Remembers Dad hugging her back and not saying anything, and their tea and hot chocolate going cold.

* * *

 

Life, slowly, moved on. Although it seemed to lack a certain warmth that it had once possessed.

Some parts never changed, even as the grief went from an overt presence to an undercurrent that infected the family. Dad remained distant and distracted, and the books piled up. Ally remained angry, and numerous reports came in from school that she was acting out. Price often ended up being the one to fill in gaps when Dad was too distracted to do it. While once he’d been barred as a potential babysitter, now he seemed to be present even more than Dad was.

No-one discussed Allison.

As for Carolina… well, she missed Allison. Of course she did. Even if thinking back she had trouble picking out what she missed about Allison herself rather than just the overall positive effect she’d had on the family.

She had photos to look at, but the months went on and her memories of Allison seemed to trickle away little by little. Photos and video clips of Allison at her warmest. Often, Carolina caught Dad watching them.

It irked her, similar to how it had at the funeral. She couldn’t really put her finger on why.

Carolina, over the next year or so, dealt with the grief by becoming progressively clingier to what family she had left. It didn’t help much, because with her dad being distant and Ally being angry, it felt like they’d partly slipped away from her.

Ally, at least, would still pay attention to her. Sometimes she got mad and shoved Carolina if she was in a bad mood. Often she’d run off for an evening, and Carolina didn’t know where she went. But if Carolina couldn’t sleep and went into Ally’s room and crawled onto the bed, Ally would always let her stay.

But Dad? Dad just got distant. He just stopped paying attention. He was home a lot more after that. Never went back to college to finish his masters. But the only times Carolina could recall spending together with him were those nights when neither of them could sleep, and they sat in the kitchen in silence and drank their respective hot drinks.

Carolina would often, as she’d done the night after the funeral, try and cling to her father afterwards. But he became less and less receptive of it. He never pushed her away, but slowly it became like hugging a wall. He’d wait for her to finish, then tell Carolina to go to bed.

Carolina stopped hugging him by the time she was six. It wasn’t comforting if he didn’t hug back.

Oddly enough, Price seemed to pay the most attention to her out of the family. Carolina had always liked Uncle Price and his weird medical stories. But soon she was tailing him around the house whenever he came to visit, which was often. Ally kept away from him, occasionally watching through cracks in the door with a sour expression. Dad occasionally snapped out of his usual reverie while Price was present, but when he did he often told Carolina to go and play elsewhere so that the adults could discuss business.

He was present more and more, as Dad slipped further and further away. Soon, it almost seemed like he was living with them.

* * *

 

“I think Price killed Mom.”

Ally said it while Carolina was lying on her stomach and watching kid’s cartoons. Ally was sitting at the coffee table, squinting at her Math homework like it had personally done the murder, one hand propping up her head.

Carolina blinked, turning away from the colourful figures on the screen. “What.”

“I think Price killed Mom.”

“...Ally, that's not funny.”

“Do I look like I'm kidding?” Ally looked at Carolina, scowling. “Think about it.”

Carolina rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “That's dumb. You're dumb.”

“He's here all the time!” Ally jammed a finger out the window, where Price was fiddling with some petunias in the backyard. “He has been ninjaing his way into our lives, bit by bit!”

“He's our uncle!”

“No, he isn't! He's just a guy who's here all the time!”

Carolina pouted, turning her attention back to the television. “That's not proof. He's being a good uncle.”

“What he's trying to do is replace Mom. He got her out of the way because he wanted to be the evil stepmom.”

“...Uncles can't do that to dads.”

“He's not our uncle!” Ally bellowed. “And we don't know how Mom died. No-one will tell us! Every time I asked they change the subject or just talk about how it was a ‘tragedy.’ Well, why won't they tell us if it wasn't something real bad?”

Carolina frowned. “Well… but that doesn't mean it was--”

“Who else has anything to gain? Who would want Mom dead?”

That was a good point.

“If he was trying to replace Mom, he'd be kissing Dad. I haven't seen him doing that,” Carolina said.

“Not yet,” Ally muttered ominously.

“And we don't know why Mom isn't here anymore. It might not be--”

“‘Not here anymore,’” Ally mimicked in a mocking tone. “Dead, ‘Lina. Just say dead.”

“She's just not here right now. I like that better. It's less lonely.”

“It's denial.”

“You only know what denial means because Uncle Price told us about the five steps of death,” Carolina grumbled.

“...Shut up.”

* * *

 

Carolina didn't think much on it for the next year. She thought Ally was being weird and paranoid, and if she couldn't talk to Uncle Price then who could she talk to?

But sometimes she would stare at him across the table, while he talked to Dad. She noticed that, although the talk was never very emotional, Price had a knack for asking questions--usually about computers and robots--that would get an actual response. Sometimes even a conversation.

That was good, but it was also eerie. When Carolina then looked at Ally, Ally would be glaring daggers at Price. So furious that Carolina thought she'd lunge with a butter knife.

But Carolina didn't seriously think she had a point until after a year had passed.

She still sometimes had trouble sleeping, and sometimes so did Dad. Sometimes they still sat at the kitchen table in silence, drinking their respective hot beverages. No hugging, not any more, but companionable silence.

One night, after tossing and turning for a while, Carolina got out of bed and trotted down the hall. She really needed a hot cocoa. The problem was that Carolina couldn’t reach the hot cocoa mix. Dad put it on a high shelf to stop her from drinking it all at once. So ‘hot cocoa’ meant waking Dad up, if he wasn’t already awake.

This time he wasn’t, so Carolina pushed open Dad’s bedroom door and walked over to the bundle of blankets, poking it.

“Dad. Dad. Dad. Hot cocoa. Dad. Daaaad.” Carolina continued to prod the lump of blankets, until finally a hand appeared out of the mass of blankets and pulled them down.

She had not been poking Dad. Instead, Price peered back at her.

“Oh. Uh. Carolina. Hello.” For once, he sounded a little sheepish. He looked behind him, awkwardly. Carolina peered over his shoulder to see that Dad was there, just on the other side of the bed and curled up, snoring loudly.

Carolina looked at Dad, then at Price. She squinted at him.

“...I needed hot cocoa?”

“Ah. I’ll help with that.” Price clambered out of the bed. He was, thankfully, wearing pajama pants. Carolina continued to squint at him suspiciously.

“Why were you in Dad’s bed?” she asked bluntly, as Price entered the kitchen and picked up the bag of hot cocoa mix from its tauntingly high shelf.

Price took a few moments to answer. “...I was providing comfort.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Don’t you have sleepovers with your friends?”

“Only kids have sleepovers.”

Price let out an amused hum. “Is that so? Well, that’s a conversation for another time. Here. Drink your cocoa, then go to bed. Is that fair?”

Carolina looked at the cocoa. He hadn’t put marshmallows in. Carolina stared at the cocoa like it had personally pissed on her bed, then looked at Price and held it out.

“You should have some.”

“That’s kind of you, but no thank you,” Price said.

“You. Should. Drink,” Carolina insisted.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. Goodnight, Carolina.” With that, Price retreated back towards the bedroom.

Carolina peered down the hallway, waiting for the door to close, before hurrying to Ally’s room as fast as she could without spilling the hot drink. She pushed open the door, put the hot cocoa down carefully, then started prodding Ally.

“Ally. Ally. Allyyyyy. Ally. Ally!”

“Oh god, what?!” she muttered, trying to wave Carolina’s prodding fingers away before pulling her pillow over her head. “You can share the bed, just be quiet!”

“Price is trying to poison me.”

There was a pause, then Ally sat up. “What.”

Carolina pointed at the hot cocoa. “I wanted hot cocoa, so I went to ask Dad and Price was in his bed and wearing jammies. Price got up to help me, and I asked him why he was in Dad’s bed when he doesn’t live here and I think I asked him too many questions. I tried to get him to take a sip but he wouldn’t, which means it’s poisoned!”

“...Pour it down the sink, ‘Lina, jesus.”

“But if it’s not poisoned I’m gonna waste good hot cocoa. Can you try it? You’re bigger than I am, so you won’t get as poisoned. You’ll probably survive.”

“Pour it. Down. The sink.”

“Aw.”

Once Carolina had, reluctantly, poured the potential poison down the sink, she returned to Ally and they both sat on the bed in silence, thinking.

“We need to tell the police,” Ally said.

“We can’t!” Carolina whispered. “If… if he murdered Mom, then that makes Uncle Price the enemy. And you can’t hold hands with the enemy. That’s what Romeo and Juliet was about. I saw that version where everyone wears hawaiian shirts and uses guns, and in that version the prince guy was a cop and he was like… ‘don’t do that.’ So Dad would get arrested, too.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t make the laws, Ally. Anyway, we don’t have any proof.” Carolina flopped backwards. “What if we went through Dad’s desk? Maybe he’ll have photos, and we’ll see some kind of detail--”

“Why would Dad have proof that Price killed Mom?”

“...I dunno. We can’t check Uncle Price’s desk. I don’t know where he lives!”

Ally flopped backwards, also staring upwards. “...This sucks, ‘Lina.”

“Yeah.” Carolina rolled over and wrapped her arms around Ally. “I don't wanna go back to my room. He might poison me. Can I stay?”

“‘Lina, you can always stay here. Dumbass,” Ally grumbled. Despite the annoyed tone, she hugged back just as tightly.

Neither of them slept. They just discussed possible methods of foiling Price, and when they ran out of ideas they just hugged in silence.

* * *

 

That morning, Carolina and Ally didn't leave their room right away. It wasn't a school day, so there was no rush, but they could hear the rattle of cereal being poured in a bowl and the hiss of coffee being heated up.

They both sat on the bed in exhausted silence until there was a tap on the door. Price spoke.

“Allison? Time to wake up. Is Carolina in there?”

After some hesitation, Ally said, “Yeah.”

“Good. Your father needs to talk to you both.” Then the footsteps moved away. Carolina and Ally exchanged a nervous look before Ally climbed off the bed. Carolina hurried after her, reaching out to cling to her arm tightly.

“What do we do if he tries something?” Carolina whispered.

“We run. We find a cop. He can't catch us both if we split up,” Ally said grimly.

“Okay. Okay…”

Ally opened the door and together they headed for the kitchen. When they got there, they found Dad and Price sitting at the table, drinking coffee and talking quietly.

The moment that Ally and Carolina stepped into the room, Dad tailed off, looking uncomfortable. Usually his gaze tended to go towards Ally first, but for once it landed on Carolina.

“...Good morning. I suppose you have questions,” he said awkwardly.

“You suppose right,” Ally said firmly.

The Director shifted a little, then nodded. “Then ask.”

“Away from him,” Ally said, turning and glaring at Price.

Dad looked at Ally, then at Carolina, then back at Ally. “This concerns Price, too. He should be--”

“I’ll excuse myself,” Price said, getting to his feet. “It was not my intention to intrude.”

“Really. Because you seem to be doing a lot of that,” Ally muttered venomously.

“Allison,” Dad said sharply. Glancing at Price with an annoyed frown he muttered, “Why would you leave me to explain this?”

“They made their wishes clear, Leonard.” Price had a tiny hint of amusement in his voice as he left the room. Dad covered his face with his hand for a moment, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a swear, before looking at his two daughters. Ally sat down, with Carolina hopping onto a seat next to her.

There was silence for a few moments. Ally glared at him, while Carolina peered with a more inquisitive stare. Dad looked at them both, then sighed.

“I suppose I’ll start.” He fiddled with his fingers, looking upwards and going pink in the face. “Allison. Carolina. Sometimes… sometimes men will seek comfort from each other in a similar way to what a husband and wife might--”

“Ugh, Dad, we know!” Ally said impatiently.

“Yeah, Randy at school has two dads,” Carolina chimed in.

“...Oh. Oh, okay,” Dad said, looking very relieved that he was going to be spared that explanation.

“But neither of Randy’s dads murdered the other dad’s wife and became an evil stepmom,” Carolina finished.

“...Wait, what.”

“Price is a murderer and we need to call the cops,” Ally said firmly.

“Where did you get this idea from?” Dad asked slowly, eyebrows scrunching together.

Ally recapped the same argument that she’d given Carolina a year ago, with Carolina chiming in about poison and hot chocolate. Dad watched them both talk, but as they did so his face seemed to become less tense as they continued.

“...That’s all? That he’s around too often and wouldn’t drink any cocoa?” he asked. “That’s absurd.”

“Then how did Mom die?”

Dad shut his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “That… that isn’t relevant. It wasn’t Price. I know that much.”

“How?”

Dad said nothing. When he didn’t say anything, Ally’s glare became more venomous and she turned away and stormed towards the living room. Carolina glanced at her dad before following.

When she entered the living room, she saw Ally picking up the phone and reaching to press the 9 button. Before she could, Carolina grabbed her wrist.

“No, Ally! Dad’ll get in trouble!” she whispered. “We can’t call the police!”

“He’s covering for Price. He deserves it,” Ally growled.

Ally shook off Carolina’s hand, but then Carolina pressed down on the hook switch so that Ally couldn’t call 911. Ally glared at her, then dropped the phone receiver.

“Fine. I’ll walk to the nearest station. Screw you.”

“Ally. Ally, noo. Come back!”

Carolina followed after her, even as Ally headed out the front door. They didn’t see Price on the way, which was probably better since it would have resulted in more kicked shins. Carolina tried to grab onto Ally’s arm to hold her back, but Ally’s eight-year-old strength was too powerful.

Carolina was left with no choice but to either go back inside or follow Ally. She followed.

By the time she caught up with Ally, she was already halfway down the street, passing by a van with a seafood delivery logo emblazoned on the side. Carolina glanced at the van’s colourful logo before catching up to Ally.

“You don’t even know the way!” she protested.

“I do too. I’m not stupid, ‘Lina.”

Carolina looked back to see if Price or their father had left the house after them, but saw no-one. Then she turned back to Ally, trotting fast to keep up and coming up with every reason she could to try and stop Ally from going forward.

“Maybe it’s just one of those adult things! Like how we’re not allowed to know about the birds and the bees yet.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe we should wait and lure Price into a false sense of security.”

“No.”

Carolina continued to rattle off every possibility, excuse or course of action that came to mind. She knew she couldn’t let Ally do this. Even if… even if there was really a bad reason for it. After all, if they took away Dad and Price, who’d be left?

Her efforts came to naught. Ally had always been too stubborn. Finally, running out of breath, Carolina looked around.

By this time, they were a few streets away from home. While their home and the homes around it had room enough for small backyards, here was where homes instead started to turn into apartment blocks. Cozy and spacious for apartments, but the streets became narrower and started to split off into little alleyways. Vaguely familiar, but Carolina didn’t know the way to anywhere except home and school from here. Too many places to turn.

As she looked around, wondering if Ally actually knew the way, movement caught the corner of her eye. A van. A seafood delivery van. Crawling slowly down the street.

Carolina stared at the van for a moment. “...Ally?”

“I’m not stopping.”

“Ally, I’ve never seen that brand of seafood before.”

“I don’t care, ‘Lina, will you just--”

Two men were sitting in the front of the seafood van. One of them looked less than enthusiastic to be there, but the other was leaning on the steering wheel a little and, now that Carolina looked properly, was clearly watching them.

“Ally. Ally, we need to go back. We need to go back right now,” Carolina said quietly, thumping Ally on the arm.

“‘Lina--”

As Ally turned to face Carolina, face set in a scowl, the man driving the van put his foot down, the van starting to speed up. The other man, with a resigned expression on his face, was already reaching for the door handle.

“Run. Run!” Carolina yelped, shoving Ally towards the nearest pathway. Both of them broke into a sprint, bolting for where the van would have trouble following them. Behind them, Carolina heard a car door opening, a faint swear and footsteps heading after them.

“Remember the plan!” Ally whispered as she ran, clearly trying to sound calm even though her expression had turned to one of abject fear. “Go left, find help!”

“Ally--”

“Go!” With that, Ally veered off into a different alleyway.

Carolina took a few steps down that way… and she froze. Turned back. Should she run? But what if they followed Ally? What if they got Ally before she could find help? But if she stayed, then no-one would find them, but what if… what if…

She hesitated. Hesitated a little too long, heard footsteps thundering towards her. Too late to run, so she crouched behind a garbage bin, pressing her back to the wall and hoping she didn’t show.

She heard the footsteps stop nearby. Carolina waited, but heard only breathing. She couldn’t help herself, and peeked just a little past the bin. It was difficult to make out the man’s features, his face obscured by a cap with the brim pulled low and a cobalt bandana around his face. And now she knew for sure that she hadn’t made up the danger, because he had a handgun gripped in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered. But he didn’t move. He was focused on the way Ally had gone. When he turned to look in Carolina’s direction she ducked her head again. As she did, she heard another, heavier pair of footsteps.

“Y-you run out of breath already?” the newcomer, presumably the driver of the van, asked, despite his own wheezing. Carolina, taking another quick peek, saw that the man was dressed identically, except that his bandana was orange.

“Shut up, B.” There was a pause before the first man said, “That one that looks like Allison… she went that way. Dead end. Dumb kid. Other kid went that way.”

Carolina blinked, barely able to suppress a small squeak.

“...Maybe forget the other kid, then. Better grab the kid we know we can get before anyone notices,” the second man, B, said quietly. “This won’t look great if we get caught.”

“You think?! It was your idea,” the first man muttered.

“Just come on, T.”

Carolina held her breath, and heard the footsteps start to move away from her. Towards Ally. Ally in a dead end.

She’d never find help in time. Even as she thought that, she heard a yell.

“Ow, she kicked me! Come here, we don’t want to--ow!”

There was a wordless yell from Ally and a thwack noise, followed by a yelp from one of the attackers.

“W-why it gotta be there?” B choked out. “Aw… Georgina wanted a boy and a girl, dunno if that’s gonna happen now, unless she has twins this time around.”

“Hey! Keep still, or I’m gonna have to use this. Keep still!”

Ally would never keep still, either. Too stubborn. So Carolina did the only thing that made sense to her. She stood up, and charged in the direction of the voices.

When she rounded the corner, she quickly saw that Ally was, indeed, not keeping still. She was perpetually trying to kick B in the shins, who in turn seemed to be trying to grab her in a slightly squeamish way that suggested that he wasn’t accustomed to child kidnapping. Similarly, T was flailing his handgun around, but was aiming anywhere but at Ally.

Carolina, following her big sister’s lead, let out a yell and kicked B as well.

“Ow, why?!” B yelped, before looking down at her, pained expression turning into surprise. “Oh. Wait, what? You said she went the other--”

“She did! Alright! Alright…” T took a deep breath before aiming the gun just slightly to the left of Carolina. “Stay still! And tell your sister to stay still, as well. I’m not looking to shoot either of you, but… but if I need to, I’m going to.”

The moment the gun started to veer near Carolina, Ally immediately stopped struggling. “Hey! Leave ‘Lina alone!”

“No, leave Ally alone!” Carolina said, glaring up at the men despite the fact that her arms were trembling.

T scratched the back of his head, mulling over his words and looking uncomfortable, before fixing a cold expression on his face.

“Alright, children. Here’s my offer.” The tone he was using seemed a little put-on. A little like the villains in the cartoons Carolina watched. “You be quiet. You get in the van. We contact your father and get him to pick you up. All goes well, no-one gets hurt. But…” He gestured at the gun in his hands. “If Allison gets rowdy, I shoot Carolina. If Carolina acts up, it’s Allison who gets a bullet. Understand me?”

“Jesus,” B muttered.

Ally was glaring daggers, but one look at Carolina and fear flickered across her face, before she nodded slowly. Carolina nodded as well once she saw Ally do the same. T let out a relieved sigh.

“Alright. Come on, quickly. We don’t want to pester the neighbours so early in the morning.”

T jerked his head the way they’d come, and both girls walked slowly in that direction. Carolina reached out and grabbed Ally’s wrist as they walked, both to try and stop her own hands shaking and to make sure Ally wouldn’t do anything crazy.

Once they were in the van, T climbed in and sat across from them. For a moment, they caught a stressed, unsure expression on his face before he tried to push it down again. B climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You should have run,” Ally muttered.

“You would have been shot!”

“Would not have.”

“It’ll be fine. Dad’ll find us,” Carolina said, voice certain. The look Ally gave her was skeptical, but she didn’t say anything as the doors to the van closed and B started the engine.

* * *

 

It became quickly clear that neither of the kidnappers knew what they were doing.

Carolina and Ally were ushered into the backroom of a restaurant with a matching logo to the van. The restaurant itself was dusty, the shutters drawn, and it looked like it’d been closed for some time. The backroom consisted of a kitchen area, a storage room and a walk-in freezer. It looked ominous, particularly since there were a number of sharp hooks--for hanging fish on? Carolina wasn’t sure--dangling inside the freezer. They’d seen it when B went inside briefly. It did look like the lair of a kidnapper.

What didn’t make this look like a proper operation was that B was trying to get them to eat what might have been fish--the smell was fish-esque but it did not look well-cooked--while T paced nervously, holding a phone and rehearsing out loud.

There was a newspaper with a bunch of cut-out letters nearby, which had been T’s first attempt at sending a ransom. Ally and Carolina had watched as T painstakingly glued on half a page of letters, only to run out of the letter L, get frustrated and toss the scissors across the counter before deciding a phone call was more modern.

At this point, T was just repeating the word ‘condolences’ in different intonations while B pushed a bowl of food at each of the children.

“Uh. You’re not allergic to fish, are you?” B asked. When neither Carolina or Ally responded, he looked over at T. “You sure we don’t have anything else?”

“Condolences. Condolences… Condolences! Huh, what?”

“We don’t have any chicken nuggets or anything?”

“Oh yeah, let me just fish a chicken out of the ocean. No, we don’t have chicken. We have fish. They’ll live.”

“What if they’re allergic? What if they starve?”

“Oh my god, B, we’ve had them for fifteen minutes. They’re not going to starve,” T said dismissively, before looking back down at the phone. “Condolences… do you think ‘sympathies’ would sound better?”

“I honestly couldn't care less. I don’t think the Director’s going to be picking over your word choice,” Biff sighed.

“Right. Right… Okay. Okay, okay, okay…” T started taking some deep breaths. “Alright… alright, just let me calm down and--”

“You have the wrong people,” Carolina said loudly. “We don’t know a Director. We’re not in the movie business.”

Neither of them answered her. T took a few breaths before dialing a number and holding the phone to his ear. B watched him warily.

As they waited, Ally nudged Carolina lightly with her leg. When Carolina looked at her, she nodded her head slightly at B’s waist. He had a gun strapped to it, same as T, and it was nearly within her reach. Carolina shook her head slightly before motioning at her own head, her hand mimicking a gun. Ally rolled her eyes in response.

The phone seemed to ring forever. T grew more agitated as the rings started to add up. But, finally, there was a click.

“Director?” As he said that, speaking in a lower voice than his normal register, T turned up the volume on the phone so that when the voice on the other end spoke it was audible, though crackly, to the rest of them.

“Who is this?”

That was Dad’s voice. Carolina squinted slightly, looking at Allison and mouthing ‘Director?’ Allison shrugged, looking equally mystified.

“My name’s irrelevant. But I know you. I knew your wife. Condolences on Allison, by the way,” T said. He crouched down, watching the two girls. “I’m getting to know your girls now. I have to say, the older one is her spitting image.”

There was silence, silence for long enough that he might have hung up. Finally, Dad said, “Where are my daughters?”

“Safe. For now,” T said. “It’s up to you if they remain that way.”

Dad said nothing in response. T waited for a little while, then continued.

“We’ve gone through a lot of trouble for you in the past. You owe us years worth of money, not to mention compensation for all the trauma we’ve been through--”

B, fiddling with the saucepan of fish, lowered his voice and whispered to Carolina and Ally, “It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s just the prison food was awful. If you ever see the log, you’ll understand.” He continued on with trying to prod the fish into a more edible state.

“--so I figure, hey, let’s round this up to one million dollars debt,” T continued. “You will transfer one million dollars to a specified bank account. Once the payment has been received, we will provide you with a location. And, as a family, you can bond over this new experience and move on. Fair?”

“One million? And how long do I have to procure this?” Dad asked. Voice calm, but there was a very slight shake to it.

“Well… the longer you leave the kids with us, the more time there is for ‘accidents’ to happen,” T said, although his voice notably halted at ‘accidents.’ At the same time, B frowned a little to himself, still prodding at the lumps of now-burnt fish. “It’s in your best interests to pay us quickly.”

“How do I know you haven’t already harmed them?”

“You don’t,” T said. “Have a little faith, Director. We’re all criminals here.”

“Let me speak to my daughters and confirm their safety.”

“That’s not part of the deal, Leonard.”

“Then there is no deal.”

T huffed, glancing over at the two girls before looking away again. “You can talk to one of them. Which one do you prefer?”

There was a pause. Then Dad said, “Allison.”

Carolina felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. She looked at the floor, her eyes burning a little, while Ally’s mouth tightened into a frown.

T looked at them again, thinking about it. “...You can talk to Carolina.”

“That isn’t--”

But T was already holding out the phone to Carolina. “Be smart about it.”

Carolina took the phone and held it up to her ear.

“Carolina?” she heard her father ask. He was still talking calmly, but there was a note of panic in his voice. Just a note. Carolina said nothing, eyes sliding to Ally. Ally met her eyes for a moment, then looked away. Carolina’s mouth tightened a little.

“Dad--”

“Is Allison okay? Have they done anything to--”

“Seafood van!” Carolina blurted. “They own a seafood van and one of them mentioned a Georgin--”

Her rushed words were cut off as B grabbed the phone from her and threw it back at T, who caught it with a panicked expression. Before anyone could respond, B--his calm attitude having evaporated immediately at the mention of Georgina, grabbed Ally by the wrist and yanked her to her feet. Ally responded with kicking, but this time B wasn’t being squeamish about touching her, his fingers digging into her wrist tight enough that the skin around it was going white.

“Time’s shorter the more your kids struggle, Director,” T said quickly, words rushed. “I’ll be in touch in an hour.”

“Temple, I know it’s you,” Dad said. “You and Biff, I assume? You have one chance to let my daughters go unharmed.” There was a pause before he said, “Allison always said you were afraid of blood.”

Temple didn’t answer. He just turned the phone off and tossed it on the counter before rounding on Biff and Ally.

“Now what?!” he hissed.

“I don’t know! Fuck… fuck, what if he finds Georgina?” Biff whispered.

“Georgina? What about us?! We’re the ones with his kids!” Temple rubbed his head, starting to pace. “Fuck, we quit. We need to quit. He’s going to find us.”

“No, we need that money and we’ve already gone too far with this,” Biff said stubbornly, even as he tried to keep Ally still. “And we already told them how this was going to work. Carolina gave us away. We need to keep our word.”

“Jesus,” Temple muttered.

“You made that rule!”

“I know, but… fuck!”

“Maybe…” Biff looked at the arm he was gripping tightly, peering at Ally’s hand even as she kicked him in the shins again. “Ow, you’re not improving your odds here! What if we just take the pinky? No-one really needs a pinky.”

“Of an eight-year-old girl?!” Temple shrieked.

“Don’t touch my damn fingers!” Ally yelled, kicking him again.

“Your sister shouldn’t have mentioned Georgina!” Biff snapped back.

Carolina was frozen on the spot. Incapable as these two were, they were still much bigger and had guns, and one of them had Ally and it was her fault--and she knew it was going to happen, but Dad had to know (and maybe, just maybe, there’d been a little bit of anger when Dad had asked for Allison first, but--)

“We’re out of our depth, Biff! The Director’s gonna kill us!”

“The Director can’t do anything anymore! It was all Allison!” Biff said. “The Director’s just a nerd at a computer, he isn’t going to do anything!”

All… Mom? What was all Mom? Carolina blinked, staring between the two. Funny how a few small words could fill her with a lot of different emotions. Confused anger, mostly. The sense that something big had been kept away from them.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Ally. Ally was the important thing.

“Look, if you want to go out that door… then you go, alright?” Biff said. “But I can’t quit this now. I need that money, Georgina and Biff Jr. are going to need that money. And I don’t want to say you owe me, but--”

“I know, I know. My fuck-up that got us in jail the first time around. I swear, if I had a nickel for everytime you guilt-tripped me about that I could pay to set up you and Georgina myself,” Temple muttered. “Yeah, dude, I’m not gonna leave you to take the fall, don’t worry. If you’re that set on it--”

“One finger. We prove to them that we’re serious. He’ll get cold feet,” Biff said confidently. “He knows we’re holding all the family he has left.”

Finally, Carolina found her voice.

“You can’t hurt Ally.”

Both Temple and Biff turned towards her, although Biff didn’t loosen his grip on Ally’s wrist. Carolina looked at them both, words failing her, but as she did she saw Ally watching her with one eye, her free hand slowly reaching for the gun on Biff’s belt.

“Yeah, you, uh… you can’t! Because… because…” Carolina fumbled with her words for a moment, when that ache in her stomach reminded her of what her father had said. “Because if you hurt Ally, you’re hurting his favourite daughter.”

That… hurt to say. It was like spitting poison, and Carolina couldn’t help the bitter, angry tone that came with it. She’d always had an inkling, but...

“And…  and that means Ally is worth more. So it also means…” Carolina paused for a moment, seeing Ally’s hand inch a little closer to the gun, hoping that the kidnappers remained distracted. “It’s like… I saw this show where old people stare at fancy pots and say how much it’s worth, and if it was damaged it was always worth less.”

“Do antiquing rules count for children?” Biff asked Temple, eyebrows creased together.

“Man, I don’t know, do I look like the expert in--hey!”

Suddenly, too much happened for Carolina to really process it.

A yell. A glint of metal. A gunshot, followed by Ally’s wrist being let go. Ally stumbled back, one hand holding the gun as she kept it pointed at Biff. She hadn’t even had to aim. She’d just pulled the trigger as she was yanking it out of the holster, and now red was spreading quickly over Biff’s pant leg.

And now Ally was staring at Biff, gun pointed but trembling violently. Temple was frozen in place, hands half-raised, eyes wide and horrified. For one moment, everything seemed to freeze. Even Biff seemed more confused than hurt for that moment, looking down and touching the red that was spurting out.

Carolina broke that bizarre, frozen moment by grabbing Ally’s arm and pulling her back.

“Run. Run!”

They both bolted for the door, dodging around the kitchen counters and barrelling through the door into the main restaurant, even as they heard Biff stumble and sink to the floor behind them. Carolina reached the door first, but rattling the door handle proved fruitless. Temple had locked it.

“Get back!” Ally said, raising the gun again and pointing it at one of the restaurant windows. She pulled the trigger, and the window shattered. Carolina covered her face as glass rained down. Ally was already moving before the glass had finished falling, climbing onto the windowsill and reaching her hand down for Carolina to grab it.

But just as Carolina grasped it, she heard a door slam open behind her and thundering footsteps. Another hand grabbed her ankle as she was climbing up, and with a yelp her hand was pulled away from Ally.

“No, you fucking don’t!” Temple snarled. Carolina caught a glimpse of his face out of the corner of her eye. Gone was all hesitation. Now there was only deranged anger.

“‘Lina!” Ally screamed.

“Run, stupid!”

Carolina only saw a brief glimpse of Ally before she bolted, and Carolina was yanked back from the window. Temple gripped her tightly, wrapping his other arm around her waist and hoisting her up before dragging her to the back of the restaurant.

Biff was sitting on the floor, pressing a dishcloth to his leg. It was already soaked through, and he looked on the edge of nodding off. The anger on Temple’s face flickered for a moment as he saw Biff.

“Hospital’s not too far, man. It’s… it’s gonna be fine,” he said, voice shaking.

Biff didn’t respond, just staring at his leg in a disorientated way. Temple looked back at Carolina, and that terrible rage filled his features again.

“You knew the deal. Now you pay the price, Carolina.”

With that, he reached over and opened the walk-in freezer, and threw Carolina in before slamming the door. Carolina heard the clang of the heavy lock being slid in place, and then she couldn’t hear anything at all. Not Temple. Not Biff. Not anyone.

It was dead silent for that moment, and then the fans up the top of the freezer turned on, and a horrible chill washed over Carolina. Shivering and hugging herself for a moment, she tested the handle on her side of the door. It wouldn’t budge. She kicked the door. Nothing.

“Hello? Hey! Anyone?!” she called out.

But there was no response.

* * *

 

Carolina could never have said how long she had to wait in that freezer. It could have been days. Or hours. Or even just minutes. In any case, time slowed to a crawl while she was there.

First it was just chilly. But over time, that chill became worse.

Carolina spent the time between ‘chilly’ and ‘worse’ kicking the door. Then punching the door. Then throwing what few items she could reach at it, mostly scraps of frozen fish. The whole freezer smelt of old fish.

She started to shiver. It was at this point that she gave up on the door and walked over to where the metal hooks dangled from the ceiling. She dragged a box over, climbed up and started trying to pull one of the hooks down.

The metal hurt her hands. Even colder than everything else, like touching an icicle.

She climbed back down empty-handed. Soon after, though, the tips of her fingers started to go numb. So did patches of her face. She tried breathing into her hands to warm them up, but it did no good. Only made it feel worse. She didn’t even have a jacket, so she just kept rubbing her arms in an attempt to feel anything that wasn’t cold.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

Eventually, she returned to trying to retrieve that hook, and the numbness in her hands somehow made it more bearable to touch the metal. She had to wiggle it around a lot, but she managed to retrieve the hook and bring it down with her.

If Temple came back… she could fight. Maybe. She could try something.

And so she stood at the door. Waited.

Waited longer.

Waited until it was getting hard to stay awake. She was on the cusp of her eyes slipping shut when there was the heavy creak of the thick lock being pulled open.

Was it Ally? Had Ally come back? Or had Ally found help?

Her eyes were blurry, and she saw a big, dark shape. Too big for Ally. Adult. Temple? Biff? Terror swamped over her, and she let out a scream and swung the hook forward. A hand caught her wrist, and her terror quadrupled.

“Get away! Get away!” Carolina screamed, although her voice was hoarse and breathless.

The response, however, was calm. It was also not a voice she knew.

“Wow. You swung that like a champ. Easy, ‘Lina. I’m here to help.”

Carolina blinked, trying to bring the figure into focus. He looked like he’d waltzed right off a tropical postcard. His skin had a deep, natural tan that contrasted heavily with bleached hair, and he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a kind smile. His hands were empty, barring the one holding Carolina’s wrist firmly but gently, but contrasting with his easy going appearance was a handgun strapped to his belt.

“W-wh-wh--” Carolina tried to talk, but her teeth were chattering too much and she was so tired.

She tried to step forward, but that kick had taken all the energy she had left and she stumbled. The stranger reached out to steady her.

“My name’s Illinois. I work with your father. You mind if I carry you, ‘Lina?”

Most didn’t call Carolina that. It was something largely restricted to either Ally or, once upon a time, Allison. For whatever reason, even though he could have gotten that nickname from anyone or come up with it himself, it cemented in her mind that she could trust this man.

Carolina managed to nod, and Illinois scooped her up. He was warm. It was only the slightest bit of warmth, but compared to that horrible chill it was heaven. Carolina let herself doze off for a second, but he gave her a slight, gentle shake when she did.

“Don’t fall asleep until we get you to a doctor, okay?”

“A-A-A-Ally--” Carolina managed to choke out.

“She’s alright. We ran into each other. Very lucky that she looks like your mother, honestly. I was on my way to check each seafood restaurant in the area--bunch of them, go figure--so she saved me a lot of time.” Illinois stepped out of the fridge and nearly slipped on the blood on the floor. “Whoops.” He didn’t seem bothered by it. Neither Temple or Biff was anywhere to be found, but there were blood splatters leading out towards the front of the restaurant.

Illinois stepped into the front section of the restaurant. Carolina immediately saw a blur of blonde hair as Ally hurtled towards her.

“‘Lina! ‘Lina, ‘Lina, I…” Ally wrapped her arms around Carolina and buried her face in Carolina’s shoulder. She didn’t say anything except to continue repeating Carolina’s name. Carolina’s shoulder started to feel damp.

“M’alright,” Carolina said vaguely.

“No, you’re not. Taking you to the hospital,” Illinois said. “I’ll call your dad on the way. He’ll be relieved to know you’re both safe.”

Despite the weird fog that seemed to have settled over Carolina’s thoughts, she frowned a little at this and muttered, “Sure. Both of us.”

* * *

 

Nothing was said on the journey there. Ally refused to let go of Carolina the whole trip. Illinois had tossed her a puffy fisherman’s jacket to try and stay warm with, although it didn’t help much. It was hard not to fall asleep.

Carolina doesn’t have much memory of the hospital. She remembers a nurse sitting her down somewhere and handing her some medicine, and remembers warm sponges being used to rewarm her hands.

Luckily, she didn’t have much permanent damage from it. Some faint scars on her pinky and ring fingers years later, marks of the frostbite that had started to infect her extremities. Barely noticeable unless someone looked at the right angle, although they were sore for some time after the incident.

She remembers that Ally didn’t leave the room, that Illinois settled in the corner and waited. And she remembers when her father turned up.

She had her hand stretched out while the nurse did her work, and the door slammed open and he hurtled in. Carolina remembered noticing two things.

One, that she’d never seen her father look terrified. Not like the sheer panic that was spread across his face. Two, that his eyes--just for a moment--flickered first to Ally sitting in the corner, unharmed, before he turned his attention towards Carolina. Carolina had to look away. She… just didn’t want to look at him right now. Ally, similarly, was now taking an absurd interest in staring at the wall.

He stared at her for a moment, eyes moving to the hand that the nurse was tending to, before he spoke to the nurse.

“What injuries occurred?”

“Frostbite in her fingers. Her face might need some care, too, but only a little. Your other child is unharmed,” the nurse said brusquely.

Dad nodded, the terror fading from his face. He looked at Carolina, then Ally, then turned to Illinois a little too quick, like he was trying to avoid looking at them. Illinois raised an eyebrow before getting to his feet.

“Guess I should be off. Got work to do, don’t I?” he said cheerfully. He made little finger guns at Carolina, accompanied by ‘pew pew’ noises. “Nice to finally meet you, ‘Lina. Wish it was under better circumstances. You too, Ally.” He made more finger gun gestures at her. Ally shrugged, making a more half-hearted finger gun gesture back at him. Illinois slapped Dad on the shoulder and left the room.

Dad said nothing else. He just sat down in Illinois’ vacated chair and silence fell again.

Time passed. The nurse finished tending to Carolina before leaving the room, after explaining that she’d need to at least stay the night to ensure there were no complications. Still, no-one spoke. No-one acknowledged the situation that had led them here.

It was some hours of awkward silence before there was a knock at the door. Price poked his head in. He looked to Carolina first, who by this point was seated comfortably in a hospital bed.

“Carolina. How are your hands?”

“They hurt,” Carolina said. She normally would have continued on, perhaps showing Price how her smallest finger had shiny parts on it where the hurt was concentrated. But she remembered the hot chocolate, and so said nothing else.

“I’m sure. I’ve never had frostbite, but I imagine it would hurt.” Price looked towards Ally, nodding his head slightly, but Ally kept glaring at the wall. Seeing that he’d get no response, Price looked to Dad. “A word?”

Dad nodded before looking at his daughters. “Will you be fine by yourself for a minute?”

Carolina exchanged a glance with Ally. Slowly, they both nodded. Dad nodded back before leaving the room.

The moment the door closed, Ally got to her feet. So did Carolina, although it took some struggle. Ally helped her up, being sure not to touch her damaged hands, before they rushed to the door and tried to eavesdrop.

“--body found abandoned in a seafood van that matches the description. We’re still waiting for official confirmation, but it seems like Biff won’t be a problem any longer,” Price’s voice said. After a pause, he added, “Agent Illinois didn’t say that he’d hurt either of them?”

“He never saw either of them. But he found Allison holding a handgun.” Dad said quietly.

“...Should I discuss that with her at some point? That could cause significant psycholo--”

“What about Temple? He wasn’t in the van?” Dad interrupted.

“No word on him so far. What are your orders regarding him?”

Carolina remembers the next sentence, because… although the line had sounded angry, it had also carried authority. Authority different from a father. It was, in retrospect, the first time she heard her father speak as ‘the Director.’

Dad--the Director--said, “Bring him in. And make him regret ever being alive.”

Carolina never saw Temple again. She heard rumors, when she was older. But nothing concrete. Hearing the rumors, perhaps she didn’t want to know how the Director’s employees had followed that order.

She returned to her bed, and Ally returned to her seat. As they waited for Dad to return, Ally stared down at her hands, thumbs rubbing along where the gun had rested.

* * *

 

It was a week and a half after the incident that they finally got some answers. It wasn’t from Dad or Price, but from Illinois.

He turned up a few times over the next week. Carolina and Ally were taken off school for a while for recovery, and he turned up to babysit when neither Dad or Price could be present. Or perhaps Dad thought they might flee from Price again, like they had the day of the kidnapping.

Illinois was kind, and he had a lot of fun stories that usually started with drinking too much and ended with waking up in boats that didn’t belong to him. He liked rum and the high seas, and apparently found the fact that old-school pirates didn’t exist anymore deeply saddening. He chatted, and watched videos or played dumb games with them, and it made it easier to ignore the hurt.

There was a lot of hurt that they didn’t speak about.

Ally, in a 180 from their normal routine, spent the next few weeks persistently crawling into Carolina’s bed to cling to her. A couple of times, she woke up screaming. She wouldn’t talk about it. Maybe she saw a red floor and felt metal in her hands, or maybe it was something else entirely. But afterwards, she’d cling to Carolina as if to make sure she was still there. She spent a lot of time staring off, not paying attention.

Carolina wasn’t affected in her dreams so much. But her hands still hurt and the cold became something to fear. She remembers wanting to get an ice cream and opening the freezer door, and the moment that mild chill hit her… she just lost it. Slammed the freezer shut. Recoiled in the corner, trying to rub the warmth back into her skin even though it’d only been a second.

She didn’t talk about it, either. She didn’t know who to tell.

Still, it was… bearable. Especially with Illinois serving as a distraction, if not a cure. But there were questions. Questions that had lingered in both their minds since the kidnapping.

And so, eleven days after the incident, they were playing Go Fish. Illinois was trying to show off some card-shuffling techniques, but only succeeded half of the time. As he dropped the cards, holding back a swear as he started to scoop them up again, Carolina finally voiced her first question.

“Were Mom and Dad criminals?”

Illinois paused in the middle of scooping up cards. “I’m not sure I’m the one to talk to you about that.”

“Dad and Price are never here. They’re not talking to us about it,” Carolina protested.

“And we couldn’t trust them if they did,” Ally muttered venomously.

“Good point, good point.” Illinois put the deck of cards aside and propped his chin on his hand, looking thoughtful. “How much do you know?”

“Temple said ‘we’re all criminals here’ while on the phone to Dad. They called him the Director. And they said… they said that he wasn’t dangerous without Mom,” Carolina said. “I don’t remember Mom being dangerous…”

“I’d hope not. Kids shouldn’t be afraid of parents.” Illinois moved his other hand under his chin as well, lacing his fingers together. “You’re dead sure you can’t trust your dad on this?”

“He’s covering for Price,” Ally snapped.

“...Wait, is this about the supposed ‘murder?’” Illinois grinned. “Oh, believe me. Price could never have killed Allison. Even if he’d wanted to, he never would have been able to hire the right help without your father hearing about it. And trying to do the job himself… that twig? Not a chance.”

Illinois pushed back on his chair for a moment, thinking, before he shifted forward again.

“Okay… okay, you know what? Someone has to clear this out, and if you won’t hear it from them… guess it’s gotta be me. Your dad owes me one, anyway. He can’t get too mad. But…” He leaned further forward. “You can’t talk to anyone about this. Not your teachers or your friends. No-one. Deal?”

Carolina and Ally exchanged glances again. Ally looked pretty reluctant to agree with that deal, eyebrows scrunched together. Carolina shrugged a little. She could keep a secret, and if she didn’t learn… well, knowing there was a secret but not knowing what the secret was, that would drive her insane.

“Deal,” Carolina said.

“Yeah. Deal. I guess,” Ally huffed.

“Pinky swear?” Illinois asked seriously, holding out his pinky. Remembering that Carolina’s fingers were still blistered from frostbite, he grimaced and changed it to a fist bump. Carolina tapped her fist against his, and he did a proper pinky swear with Ally. “Alright. So… I’ll lay it out as best I can.

“Yeah, you have it right. Your parents have both dabbled in crime. Your father… well, he organized the jobs. Did the research on the targets. Gave everyone their role. ‘The Director,’ as it were. There was Price, too. He picked the right people for the job, made sure they were suited for it. We called him ‘the Counselor.’ And there was Allison. She ran the groups out in the field, kept them together and pushed us to make sure the job got done. We called her ‘the Operator.’”

“What… kind of crime?” Carolina asked slowly.

“Whatever would pay. We had some standards… no needless sadism, no kids. Tried to limit the bloodshed when possible. We were professionals, through and through. But sometimes it didn’t work out that way. I mean… you’ve seen it up close now, haven’t you? Sometimes crime gets messy. And sometimes... well, she tried to watch out for us and for anyone she took on a job, but… sometimes it boiled down to a choice of leaving someone behind or risking not coming home herself, and… she always picked coming home when she could. That… got a few somewhat inept criminals thrown behind bars for a few years.”

“Temple?”

Illinois nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t think he’d take it that personally, honestly.”

“So… that was all Allison’s fault?” Ally muttered.

“A lot of different factors, really, but sounds like it’s who they chose to blame.”

Ally looked away, staring at the wall, while Carolina remained focused on Illinois. “Is that why they wouldn’t tell us how Mom died? She died… doing this?”

Illinois sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That was not a good day…” he mumbled under his breath. “We were good, but… we were also young and overconfident. Got bolder with our jobs. We were doing a robbery for a client, and… well, we’d done so many like it. Thought we knew all the tricks. We didn’t. One of us tripped an alarm. Alerted security. Allison caught a bullet when we fled.”

He went quiet for a moment, expression a little tired, before he leaned back on his chair.

“Most of the others dropped it after that, and I can’t really blame them. Your dad’s smart and all, but Allison was the Operator. Neither the Director or Counselor really knew how to keep a crew together like she did.”

He trailed off. After a few moments, Ally pushed her chair back and got to her feet. A stormy, closed-off expression on her face. Without a word, she headed for the bathroom. After they heard the door slam, Illinois sighed.

“Too much detail?” he asked Carolina. When Carolina didn’t respond, he continued shuffling cards. “Sorry.”

“I wanted to know,” Carolina said quietly.

Illinois nodded. “The truth is the worst, and hard to forget without several bottles of rum.” He started dealing cards in a solitaire formation on the table. “...She did love you two. Hope this doesn’t throw that into doubt. She just didn’t want to expose you to what we do.”

Carolina crossed her arms and rested her chin on them. “I don’t remember Mom too well anymore,” she admitted.

“Pity. She was a cool lady.”

Carolina watched him set up the solitaire game. “So… you do crime, too?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Money, mostly.” Illinois finished laying the cards out, placing the rest of them to the side. “I want to buy a small, beachside shack one day and I don’t really have many job skills apart from daytime drinking and a tendency towards stealing boats.”

“Why didn’t you just get a job skill?”

“I did.” Illinois made finger guns. “Pew pew.”

“Is that why Mom and Dad did it? Money?”

“Oh yeah, that’s a big part of it. Your mom was eighteen when she got started, you know? Actually…” He nodded his head towards the bathroom. “Probably the first few months of being pregnant with your sister. She wasn’t out in the field at that time, obviously, but it’s when the planning started. Barely out of high school. A boyfriend in his last year who, granted, had some scholarships lined up but was about to spend his college career mostly eating noodles with bits of hot dog in it--”

“Dad still cooks that sometimes.”

“Ah, jesus, Leonard. He really needs to learn that doesn’t count as a healthy meal. But all that and a child on the way? Of course, she always meant for it to be just one or two jobs, but… well, then she discovered she was good at it. Funny how that works.”

Carolina stared at the cards on the table for a little longer. “Was Mom bad? I just… I only remember the tapes and the words people would say, and it’s all so… good. And it always felt wrong. Is that why?”

Illinois shrugged. “Is everything you do always good?”

“...I shouldn’t answer that. When adults say they won’t be mad if I tell the truth, they always get mad anyway,” Carolina said seriously.

Illinois laughed. “You got me there.”

The bathroom door slammed open again, and footsteps could be heard stomping long before Ally reappeared in the room. Carolina stared at Ally, her mouth hanging open.

“...Ally, what the hell?”

Ally grinned at them through the tattered mess that had previously been a well-kept ponytail of hair. She was holding a big pair of scissors in her hands. Her hair, previously having reached down to the middle of her back, was now cropped to a shaggy, boyish cut. It was uneven, having clearly been hacked away rather than cut with any real thought.

“Oh, jesus, he’s gonna have a lot of questions when he gets home,” Illinois muttered.

“Ally, you look like a dandelion,” Carolina said, still staring.

“Don’t call me that,” Ally said. “I’m not gonna be called Allison any more. I don’t… I don’t want people naming me after some… some criminal.”

“...Kids aren’t allowed to change their names. Or there’d be a bunch of kids with… middle names like Lazer or something,” Carolina protested.

“I can name myself whatever I want! I’m gonna be called… Texas!”

“...But we live in Nevada!”

“Texas!” she bellowed. With that, Ally--Texas--spun around and stomped off, trailing leftover scraps of blonde hair behind her.

“Well. Could be a worse name,” Illinois said after a moment. “At least it’s a big state with a lot of cowboy hats.”

* * *

 

The next few years weren’t eventful, but they lacked a certain sense of safety.

They moved not long after the kidnapping, and Carolina was glad for it. She always expected to see the seafood van out of the corner of her eye whenever she stepped outdoors. That feeling didn’t entirely recede, but it wasn’t as bad after they moved out of the state.

Her. Texas--Tex for short. Dad. Price followed, but only some weeks later. Said he had ‘business’ to wrap up first. Knowing the truth, Carolina could practically hear the quotation marks around it.

Tex refused to talk about any of it. The crime. Allison’s role in it. The long hours that their father spent locked away in his study. It wasn’t like when she’d shunned mentioning Allison out of grief. She seemed to have taken Allison’s criminal past as a personal affront. If Carolina tried to talk to her about it, Tex would just leave the room or start yelling.

Carolina, oddly, didn’t feel too disturbed by the revelation. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it just made what little she remembered about Allison click a little better. The prolonged and often seemingly random absences, trying to keep her away from Price while he and her father were talking, the way everyone avoided talking about her in any detail beyond the most bland assertions that she’d been a good person and that her death had been caused by nothing but random tragedy.

Besides. It didn’t make the kind lady in Dad’s video recordings a lie, did it?

Dad became more paranoid after they moved, and he took measures to make sure that Carolina and Ally had an eye on them at all times. Didn’t let them out of the house without supervision, and he gave them bracelets that Carolina suspected--though never confirmed--had some form of tracking device in them.

He also signed them up for self-defence classes. That was Carolina’s first exposure to anything relating to combat, and holy shit was it a rush. While she and Tex would eventually join different styles of classes--Carolina later had a preference for tae kwon do while Tex liked to box--they both started in karate classes.

There was just something about throwing punches that felt so good, even if they were’t hitting anyone. And it made Carolina feel better. Sure, logically, she was still small and if Temple ever returned she probably couldn’t just karate chop him and call it a day. But it was something!

Carolina and Tex would practice in the living room. Any attempt to ‘spar’ would just end in them hitting each other with no rhyme or reason, but it still felt good.

Time passed. When Carolina was nine, two years after the incident, they moved again. This time, Carolina wasn’t as happy about it. When she was twelve, they moved again. Each time, they moved states away from where they’d previously been. Dad never said anything about why. Was it fear? Or was it something else?

Since the incident… any remaining glimpses of closeness had gone from their relationship. Dad had distanced himself, even as he put in all the security measures he could. And once Carolina got over how long he’d hid the truth for, she started her usual pattern of trailing around after him, trying to gain some attention. Even though half the time all she could think about was Temple asking ‘which daughter do you want to talk to?’

But he wouldn’t even come out for hot chocolate any more. Carolina asked once--it had been a particularly chilly night and it was too hard to sleep--but that time, Dad had just said that she was tall enough to reach the cocoa mix on her own now.

He spent so much time locked away in his room that it became rare to ever see him leave it. Once again, Price returned to regular babysitting duties.

However, there was one exception to Dad’s reclusiveness. And, of course, it was Tex. Because a ragged haircut and a name change didn’t stop him from seeing Allison where Tex stood.

Whether it was out of nostalgia, an attempt to win Tex back to his side, or genuine preference… Dad always made sure to stop his work long enough to visit any school event, parent-teacher meeting or other necessary event that a father should be a part of.

But he could never find that time for Carolina.

* * *

 

Five years after the incident, three moves across three different states, and several missed events in Carolina’s life later, she came first in the 100m at a track event in middle school.

She remembers pride. Remembers being out of breath but in a good way. Remembers seeing the group of parents watching. Remembers that Tex had been sitting in the crowd, watching quietly. She always did. She hadn’t been on the track team. If she had, Dad would have turned up.

He wasn’t there. Instead, Price was standing on the edge of the crowd, watching with his usual inscrutable expression.

Carolina remembers her brief moment of victory soured by that.

She remembers sitting in the car afterwards as Price drove her and Tex home. Remembers saying nothing. Remembers watching Tex and feeling a bitter, seething rage.

And then she remembers Tex--somewhat sheepishly, perhaps because she knew just as well as Carolina did that there was a preference--asking her if she wanted to practice sparring, or their equivalent to sparring. Carolina said yes.

They pushed some furniture aside in the living room, and they did their usual ‘sparring.’

It started with practiced punches. Practiced kicks in set patterns. Then, as usual, it disintergrated into roughhousing. But even their roughhousing had rules. Neither of them ever tried to hurt each other seriously, leaving a few bruises sometimes but nothing more than that.

Tex punched her in the shoulder, and she had that grin she wore when they were competing and she was winning, which was… well, always. She always made it look so effortless to win.

They weren’t supposed to hurt each other, but Carolina had been angry and bitter and just… not… thinking. And so, she swung a fist square at Tex’s face. The face was supposed to be off-limits, but Carolina just didn’t want to see that grin. And, perhaps because they both knew it was meant to be off-limits, Tex didn’t block in time.

Then there was a nasty crunch, and the anger receded immediately.

“Oh. ...Shit.” She lowered her fist, and noticed that blood was smudged on her knuckles.

Tex had stumbled a couple of steps back and was holding her nose. It took her a few moments to respond, during which she just looked stunned. When she lowered her hand for a moment, Carolina could see that blood was streaming out the nostrils. Tex quickly raised her hand again to try and stifle it.

“...What the hell, ‘Lina?” she finally said.

“I, uh…” Carolina wasn’t sure what to say. That it made sense in the moment?

Tex lowered her hand again, checking the blood flow, then pressed them back to her nose. “...Need a paper towel.”

“I can get--”

“Get stuffed, Carolina, I’ll get it myself.”

She headed for the kitchen. A couple of moments after she’d disappeared, Carolina staring blankly after her, she heard Price’s voice.

“Texas, are you--”

“Shove off, Price.”

A few seconds later, Tex left the kitchen again, holding a bunch of paper towels, and stomped off to her room. Carolina didn’t move for a while. She looked down at her fist, opening and closing it warily.

“Carolina?” Price stuck his head out of the kitchen. “What happened?” He spotted the blood smeared on her knuckles. “...Oh.” After a moment of consideration, he gestured for her to come to the kitchen. “We should ice that.”

Carolina frowned, pulling her hand closer towards herself.

“At least let me look for damage,” Price said.

“But I did the punching.”

“Yes, but Texas doesn’t want my help and punching someone can still cause injuries to the hand. Come over here.”

Carolina huffed before heading over, seating herself at the kitchen table while Price retrieved some cloth and a cup of water. He started wiping off her hand, occasionally pressing down on parts of it and asking if it hurt or not.

After a couple of minutes of this, Price asked, “Why did you hit Texas?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Carolina frowned before saying, “She smiled at me and I got really angry.” Saying it outloud made her feel stupid, but just thinking about the anger made her grumpier.

Price said nothing, returning to checking her hand and letting Carolina stew on her anger.

“She just never has to try at anything!” Carolina blurted out after some silence. “No matter what she does, even if she doesn’t put any effort in, she always wins. If she’d been racing today, I would have come second. And Dad would have been there.”

“You feel angry about that?”

“‘Course I do! He misses everything just because I’m not like Mom. It’s always Allison this, Allison that. Always time for his precious goddamn Allison, even when she’s not called that anymore. Even though she’s barely said a word to him in five years!”

Price nodded slightly. “Leonard’s priorities are sometimes skewed. Although he would never admit it.” He pressed down on another part of her hand, waiting for any noises of pain, before continuing. “I’ve always thought that you had more of Allison in you than Texas did.”

“Yeah, right,” Carolina grumbled. “I’ve seen the photos.”

“True. Appearance-wise, Texas is her spitting image. But she has always been something of a lone wolf. She prefers to handle things on her own, and doesn’t like to let people close. Even you, Carolina, can often only get so close. And I’d venture a guess that you’re one of the only people she trusts at all.” Price grimaced slightly and added, “That is a mannerism that your father also tends to exhibit, for better or for worse.

“As for you, Carolina… you’re much more people-orientated. You like to compete. You like to lead. You seek out the attention and company of others. You are motivated by the people around you, in one form or other. And you don’t function well when you’re alone. These are qualities that Allison had. I suspect that, were you in her position, you would have proved to be a similar sort of leader.”

“Then how come Dad always pays attention to her?”

“Because.” Price waved a hand at Carolina’s vivid red hair. “A colour is easier to see and a name is easier to say.”

“That’s dicks.”

“Language. ...Suppose you also have a bit of Leonard in you.” Price  finished checking her hand. “I don’t think anything’s broken. I understand that emotions get the better of us sometimes… but you’re still grounded.”

“You’re not my dad,” Carolina grumbled. “No matter how many sleepovers you have.”

“...True.”

* * *

 

Carolina never hit Tex like that again, but she could tell afterwards that Tex was always on guard for it, and often lashed out a little harder than she had before. That was when they sparred at all. They only tried again a couple of months later, and never with the same regularity.

A part of her felt pissed off that she probably wouldn’t be able to make contact with Tex even if she did try to punch her in the face again.

Otherwise, life continued. They moved twice more across the next three years. At this stage, it was starting to become honestly perplexing. Were they in that much danger? There had been no danger for eight years, at least not that Carolina had seen.

Dad must have been a little more relaxed, because he was less stringent about making sure her and Tex were always supervised once they hit their teenaged years. Or maybe it just became too much effort.

It seemed, after every move, that Dad and Price both became substantially busier. Sometimes Carolina wouldn’t see either of them for days. Tex also started spending more and more time away from the house, so more often than not the home was empty and depressing.

Carolina put up with this for a while, but curiosity and a desire for recognition wouldn’t let her put up with that forever, and so she did the one thing that she knew would get Dad’s attention.

* * *

 

“...Carolina, did you break into my office?”

Carolina looked up from where she’d been rifling through Dad’s desk drawers. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Get out of my desk.”

Carolina stood up, but not before snatching up some paper files inside. She waved them slightly. “You keep notes about your jobs in a desk drawer?!”

“If anyone looking for them finds this house, let alone that drawer, they already know enough for it to be a problem,” Dad said. “Give me that, Carolina.”

“Okay.” Carolina put them down on the desk without really properly looking at them. It wasn’t the point of this.

Dad picked them up before turning, looking at the door he’d just come through. There were three locks on it. Two of them had been picked open. The third one still had the key dangling out of it. Then he looked at the desk drawer, which also had a key sticking out of it. He gazed at all this for a moment, then sighed and took a seat in his desk chair.

“Clearly you want to talk about something.”

“You’re still running crime, aren’t you? Illinois said you didn’t have the people skills to do it, but you’re still doing it,” Carolina said.

“That is not something you need to be concerned with.”

“I want in.”

Dad raised an eyebrow before leaning back on his chair, staring Carolina down without a word. So Carolina continued talking.

“I broke in here. I got through your locks, stole the right keys, and made sure to time it right so that I’d be at least to the desk drawer by the time you got back. And that’s just teaching myself. I could--”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I said so,” Dad said, getting to his feet. “Is that all you wanted?”

“But why are you saying so? I can get better training, I can do better classes and--”

“Carolina, it is not about training. For starters, you are fifteen.”

“Then just start teaching me things--”

“And secondly, this is a dangerous field of work and I will not have you involved in it.”

“I’ve been involved since Temple kidnapped me and Tex for ransom money! You never had a choice about it!”

“Carolina. You’re not ever becoming involved in this. End of discussion. Now get out of my office and don’t ever break in again.”

* * *

 

Carolina tried to push the matter. But to no avail. Dad wouldn’t even let her continue the conversation if she tried. She tried breaking into the office repeatedly just to show she could. It almost became a bizarre game. Dad would put better locks on everything and Carolina would break them, at one point simply unscrewing the door’s hinges to get in instead.

But he didn’t change his mind.

Two more years passed. They moved once more, and it would be the last time. And not long after was when the Director relented.

It wasn’t Carolina who succeeded at doing so. No, of course, what prompted the change in mind was Tex. Always Tex, even when she wasn’t trying. Even when she didn’t want to. Even when she wasn’t present at all.

In this case, specifically because she wasn’t present.

* * *

 

It had been the day after Tex had graduated high school. Carolina, now seventeen, had been the first awake that morning. She’d been the one to find the note on the kitchen table.  


 

_"Director,”_

 

_Fuck you. Honestly, it sucks that I have to tell you this in a fucking letter instead of in person, but I thought maybe you’d try shooting me or something if I told you to your face. What with you being a criminal and all. I’ve had to wait ten years to do this, and I wasn’t taking any chances._

_I’ve been moving my shit elsewhere for the last month, and now I’m gone. I’m gonna enroll to become a cop, because if there’s one thing I learned from living around you, and from that shit with Temple, is that there’s a bunch of horrible shit out there that needs a punch to the face._

_Don’t try to contact me. I’ll keep quiet about what I know, as long as you leave me alone. So no need to send assassins or anything, asshole._

 

_Price, fuck you too._

_Carolina. Get out while you still can. Sorry for doing this._

 

_Texas (NOT ALLISON)_

 

Carolina didn’t wake up either Dad or Price. She sat at the table, staring at the note with her face resting in one hand, until they entered the kitchen. Upon seeing her father, she wordlessly pushed the note towards him.

She couldn’t bring herself to feel surprised. Didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little.

Dad read the note, face impassive. Then he left and locked himself in his study, and didn’t leave for the rest of the day.

* * *

 

 

The next day, Carolina woke up to a knock on her bedroom door. Dad stood outside, hands clasped behind his back. This was an entirely new occurance, so Carolina just stared blankly at him.

After a moment of awkward silence, Dad held out a piece of paper that contained an address.

“You will need training,” he said. “You have two hours to be at this location.”

Carolina looked down at the address, then back at Dad. “...Seriously?”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No. No, I can be there.”

Dad nodded slightly, turned and headed for the kitchen. And that was that.

Two years of persuasion amounted to nothing, but one day of no Tex and suddenly the doors were open.

* * *

 

Carolina caught a couple of buses to get to where she had to go, and ended up in an area that looked… well, the sort of place where she would expect criminals to hang out. Lots of warehouses. Lots of litter. Empty streets. She could swear she heard gunshots if she strained her ears, but maybe it was her imagination.

No-one bothered her as she looked for the address. She spotted the occasional person lingering nearby or heading into a warehouse, but they all looked like they had their own shit going on.

Turns out she barely needed the address after all, because the moment it came into view she also spotted bleached blond hair and a Hawaiian shirt, clashing dramatically with the drab surroundings.

“Wow, you got a lot bigger,” Illinois said cheerfully. “Packed on some muscle. Bet you look really threatening when you flex.”

Carolina grinned. “Oh yeah. Definitely. I didn’t know it was gonna be you. I thought you were still in Nevada.”

“Ahh, I move around a lot. Whatever the Director needs doing. We’re still establishing business here, though, so this is where I need to be. Sit down with me, though, I need to run you through some ground rules.”

Illinois didn’t bother looking for a clean spot to sit, just sitting down on the dusty ground next to the fence and patting the dirt next to him. Carolina sat down.

“Alright, so the obvious,” Illinois said. “We’re gonna be training in here. We might switch places, we might not. I’ve got another kid inside. This is not a job yet, mind you. This is just training. So don’t worry if you’re not amazing.”

“I’m always amazing.”

“Didn’t say you wouldn’t be, I’m just saying. Two important things, though!” Illinois raised a finger. “One, and this is the most obvious. You don’t talk about your dad in there. Don’t behave like you’ve met the Director. Don’t behave like you know who he is. We keep that very hush-hush nowadays. Don’t want another Temple incident. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Second. As I’ve said, this is training. It does carry some obvious similarities to the actual, y’know, crime. Keeping quiet, training with stuff that’s nooooot entirely legal. But, and I want you to really hear me when I say this, okay?”

Carolina nodded. Illinois shifted forward a little, looking uncharacteristically serious.

“This work isn’t for everyone. It’s going to be hard, and you’re going to see some awful things if you join the business. But as long as we train… you can back out whenever you want. Trust me, most don’t get that chance. But you, you got the connections to be able to. But there will be a time where you can’t back out easily. So… you don’t have to decide now. But think about whether you actually want this, alright?”

“I know what I’m about,” Carolina said stubbornly.

“Maybe. We’ll see. Okay, we’re keeping the other guy waiting. Come on.”

Illinois got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. Carolina ignored it, climbing to her feet by herself, and they headed inside the warehouse.

The warehouse was mostly clear, except for what looked like a makeshift firing range in the corner. In the middle of the open space, paced the hugest person that Carolina had ever seen. He looked young. Probably about her age. But his sheer mass was actually a little intimidating.

Still, Carolina wasn’t the sort to be intimidated. So she strode over and stuck out her hand immediately, making eye contact.

“Carolina. Nice to meet you,” she said.

The giant peered at her hand, then stared Carolina down top to bottom. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and held his own hand out.

“Maine,” he said shortly.

They shook hands, squeezing a little more than necessary. The start of what would become a pretty sturdy partnership.


	12. Chapter Nine: Conjecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of O'Malley's death, rumor and gossip begins to spread amongst both staff and inmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's basically been two weeks, more or less. Hopefully that pattern will remain until the next flashbacks.

O’Malley’s body wasn’t discovered until lunch the next day, when Stassney opened the door to deliver a meal and pick up the plate from breakfast. Only to discover said breakfast and the previous night’s dinner untouched on the floor. Stassney had taken one look at the body, promptly thrown up and alerted the warden soon after.

Now the space in the narrow hallway outside the SHU cell was crowded. Niner was there, rubbing her temple and trying to fight the migraine that was starting to build just knowing that there was going to be a lot of bullshit relating to this incident. Sheila was examining the body, wearing a medical mask over the majority of her face to try and block out the smell. Niner wished she had one, too. North and Jensen were also standing in the hallway, as they’d both been on duty in the area over the previous day.

“It looks like he asphyxiated,” Sheila said after some examination.

O’Malley was an unpleasant sight, and it wasn’t hard to see why Stassney had vomited. The body was stiff, with O’Malley stuck in a position that looked like he’d tried to roll over but hadn’t quite managed it. He’d puked, and some of it had puddled out of his mouth and soaked the floor near his head, matting in his grey hair. His face was a vivid purple, barely recogniseable. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, and the smell made it worse. A mix of puke, piss and shit, with an odd hint of something that reminded Niner of sweet wine.

“When would this have happened?” Niner asked.

“I'm not a mortician so I can't say for sure. But given the rigor mortis… it probably happened last night.”

Niner continued to rub her temple for a moment longer before turning to North and Jensen. North was staring at the untouched dinner with a slight frown on his face, while Jensen was peering over Niner’s shoulder at the body. Niner directed her words to North first.

“Was he alive last night when you delivered dinner?”

“...Yeah. Definitely,” North said quietly. Still more focused on the plate of food than Niner.

Niner turned to Jensen. “You delivered breakfast. How didn’t you notice?”

Jensen looked at Niner, pushing her glasses up her nose as she spoke. “I didn’t open the cell. I pushed the food through the slot and left. And my nose isn’t all that good. Allergies. So I didn’t smell anything.” She shifted on her feet and said, “I didn’t want to look too closely at him. We… all know what he did, and that’s hard not to think about.”

“That’s one way of putting it, definitely,” North said.

“Jesus Christ,” Niner muttered. “We are really lucky this guy doesn’t have family. Less questions.”

Jensen was focused on the body again. She raised her voice slightly and called out, “Sheila, um… there’s something under him? Under the left arm. It’s green?”

“Hm?” Sheila peered at where Jensen was gesturing. “Oh. Sharp eyes, Jensen. Thank you.”

Sheila lifted the arm carefully and quickly plucked the small item pinned underneath it. The vomit puddled had touched the very edge of it, dissolving it partially, but there was enough left to tell that it was a sea-green tablet. The letter ‘M’ on one side, and a dosage on the other.

“Did he overdose on his medication?” Niner asked, taking a step forward. Sheila frowned, holding the tablet up to her eyes.

“...No. No, he did not,” Sheila said. She studied the tablet for a while longer, looked down O’Malley again, then stood up and walked over to Niner. Lowering her voice, she said, “This is a morphine pill. It is not a brand I have in the infirmary, and even if it was I had not prescribed him any. But a morphine overdose would explain why he was unable to wake.”

Niner gave her a sharp look. “You’re certain about this?”

“I don’t want to confirm anything until an autopsy can confirm the details.” Sheila stared down at the body again. “But… I would say there’s a substantial chance that this wasn’t a natural death.”

Silence reigned for a moment. During which North gazed at the tablet with narrow, suspicious eyes and Jensen looked between Sheila and Niner with a wide, shocked stare. Niner just rested her face in her hand for a moment.

“Shit,” she finally said.

 

* * *

 

“Alright. Here’s the situation.”

The day after O’Malley’s corpse was discovered, Niner had called a full staff meeting. Such meetings were incredibly rare. Normally, anything important was passed on at separate times to the guards and staff on each shift. It was rare for everyone to be called into a meeting at the same time, because that meant there was no-one to watch the inmates.

That’s why this meeting took place very early in the morning. The inmates were still locked up for another hour or so and no-one was in the infirmary, so Niner was hoping the lack of oversight wouldn’t be a problem right now. It’d have to be quick. Despite what a lot of the guards thought, the inmates weren’t stupid. They’d realise something was up if they didn’t see any guards pacing. Even when restricted to their cells, that could mean problems.

It was why Niner had almost never run a full staff meeting before, preferring to inform the staff of new policies or events in small groups rather than all at once. But she didn’t want to risk mixed messages through gossip or mangling her words between meetings. Not for something like this.

The cafeteria, normally filled with inmates, was instead seating every staff member that the prison had, most of them drinking coffee and looking sleep-deprived. From guards still exhausted from their most recent night shift, nodding off in their seats, to the guards and other staff that were preparing for the shift that was about to start. The only member of staff that wasn’t present was Wash, since he was still in hospital.

Sheila was standing a little behind Niner and somewhat to the left, holding a manilla folder. In a similar position on her right was Flowers, who had his arms crossed and was watching the crowd with a close eye, although his usual smile was still present if a little downplayed.

“An inmate was found dead in SHU at midday yesterday,” Niner said. “We’re still waiting on the full results of the autopsy, but evidence says the inmate was dosed with morphine.”

There was a mild stir, but most of the staff didn’t seem particularly impressed or disturbed by this. There were a few that did. Kimball had shifted to lean forward on the cafeteria table, eyes narrowed. Doc was sitting quietly, arms crossed, staring at the table in front of him. Stassney looked green just from being reminded of it.

Before she could continue, South spoke up.

“That asshole, O’Malley, wasn’t it?”

Niner looked at her, then sighed and looked at North. “Really, North? You couldn’t keep your mouth shut for one day?”

“Sorry,” North said sheepishly.

Niner rubbed her temple again irritably. “Great. And yes. Yes, it was.”

“Guy was a dick. Fuck him,” South said bluntly. “I’m actually kind of bummed that they bothered drugging him. Should have just stabbed him or whacked him. He fucking deserved it.”

“Jesus, South,” Kimball said, giving her an appalled look.

“Hey, you never had to deal with him,” South retorted. “I know you’re all about that mushy rehabilitation stuff, but trust me--that guy is better off in the ground.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Tex muttered under her breath.

“He tortured people. He had it coming,” Ohio called out, while Idaho nodded seriously next to her. “I mean, I’m not for the death penalty or anything, but in that guy’s case? I mean, did you see what he did to Wash? That’s just… ughhhh.”

“Alright, alright, settle down!” Niner yelled, raising her hands. When the staff had quieted to a few disparaging murmurs, she continued. “Look, I’m not going to pretend this was some big tragedy. He was, as many of you pointed out, a big, old bag of dicks. If he’d died of natural old man causes, we’d be free to have a party and move on. But that’s not the problem here.

“The problem is that this was murder. This was murder that had to have been committed by someone in this room, because staff are the only ones with access to the keys. If we’re being forgiving, perhaps someone lost their keys. Or, less charitably, maybe they just unlocked the door and let an inmate in to do the job. But, given… recent events… I’m inclined to believe this was an attempt at ‘vigilante justice.’”

“I mean, the locks are pickable, given some work,” York said. “Trust me on that.”

“Yeah, but again… the whole ‘recent events’ thing? Also never say that again, don’t give anyone ideas,” Niner said.

“My bad.”

“There’s going to be an investigation into the matter. But Hargrove wants this prison running business as usual while that’s happening. For that matter, so do I. So, laying out the rules here and now, and you’ll all get emails reminding you. So listen up.

“First!” Niner raised a finger. “This should be obvious, but don’t go running your mouths at the inmates over this. Do not talk to them about it. Do not answer questions about it beyond the purely factual. O’Malley’s dead and the cause is being investigated. That’s all the information you can give, and only if they ask.

“For that matter, I don’t want to hear any gossip about who might have done what. If you have information relating to the investigation, you bring it straight to me and no-one else. You do not go spreading rumors. We’re not a fucking elementary school. And don’t go bad-mouthing the deceased, because frankly that’s just in poor taste.” South opened her mouth, but Niner raised a hand before she could. “I know, South! But we’re trying to be professional here.” South closed her mouth again, looking grumpy.

Niner crossed her arms for a moment, mouth twisting as she considered her final words, before looking around at the room.

“Last thing. I know the situation has been tense lately, given what happened to Washington. But whatever happens, and whatever you think of the people incarcerated here… we are not judge, jury and executioner, here to bring vigilante justice or any of that bullshit. We run a prison. We’re only here to enforce the punishment that society has handed down.”

She looked around, perhaps hoping those words would stir some obvious sign of guilt from the perpetrator. It didn’t, because more than half the guards and staff looked conflicted about it, and those who didn’t looked bored or unsympathetic.

“Whether you agree or not, I expect you all to remember that,” Niner finished. “Dismissed. Keep your damn mouths shut.”

It would be all over the prison within a day.

 

* * *

 

Church was finishing up his last stack of jumpsuits during laundry hours when Tex caught up to him, though she was putting more effort into making it look like she wasn’t paying attention to him than usual. Normally she didn’t hide their interactions, but this time she stopped by the laundry machine nearby, leaning on it and watching as Donut helped untangle Caboose from a jumpsuit nearby.

Once she was sure nobody was watching, Tex slid her hand out and left a small sliver of paper on the washing machine. She made brief eye contact with Church.

“Happy birthday,” she said sarcastically.

“Eh?”

“You’ll see.” Then she left, moving over to separate a couple of other inmates who looked like they were about to throwdown.

Church watched her go, then quickly snatched up the piece of paper, unfolding it. His eyes scanned the words there, before his mouth fell open in shock.

“Holy shit,” he muttered before shoving the note back in his pocket.

On one hand, fuck. That was probably going to mean trouble for Delta. Maybe for Church, too. That will was bound to come out now, if O’Malley hadn’t been bluffing. What a clusterfuck.

On the other hand…

O’Malley dead? On its own, that was the best news that Church had heard in a while.

So even as worry started to gnaw at his stomach a little, as Church returned to ironing he may have hummed tunelessly a little.

 

* * *

 

Felix had needed to use every ounce of charm he had to be able to get a job in the prison commissary. It was both a blessing and a curse.

On one hand, he had to stare at the goods that he sold all the time, without being able to easily swipe them. He wouldn’t have once considered packets of cheap spices, flip-flops, soap or candy massive luxuries, but a year in this hellhole had changed that tune. He had a good hustle in prison--guys who could tattoo well were valuable--but the mark-up on some of these goods were obscene. So having to stare at food--some of it even name-brand--all day could be torturous. No wonder so many people put up with Church’s temper just to get at his goods.

But he knew where to look, what numbers to fudge, to occasionally be able to smuggle things out. Not much, mostly a candy bar here and there, but it gave him something to do. Besides, could never have too much candy.

Otherwise, this job was mostly stacking shelves during work hours and running a counter two days a week. Ugh. And he’d done so well at avoiding a retail job that didn’t involve stabbing people with needles until now. Better than those saps in laundry or the guys who had to mop the place, though.

As he arranged bars of soap, humming to himself, the guard nearby left the front of the commissary. Shift change. Felix kept one eye on the empty space, weighing up whether it was worth trying to swipe something right now.

Footsteps. Some muttered conversation. Then South appeared in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. Her scowl got noticeably bigger when she saw him, then her eyes lingered on the blinds that kept the commissary window blocked off outside of shop hours.

After scanning the room, noting that Felix was the only one currently working in the front (the rest were rearranging boxes in the back and clearing out the empty ones), she slowly pushed the door shut.

“We need to talk,” she said flatly.

“Again? Am I that good-looking?” Felix grinned, lifting one of the bars of soap and wiggling it a little. “Waiting for me to drop this?”

South let out a grunt of disgust before leaning against the wall. “O’Malley’s dead.”

Felix raised his eyebrows slightly. “...Huh. That was fast.” He let out a low whistle. “Glad I never had time to make any bets. I thought for sure it’d be at least a couple of weeks before he kicked it.”

He looked at the shelf of impeccably placed goods before grabbing one of the Snickers bars. Looking directly at South, he started to unwrap it. Her eyes flickered to it for a moment, and her scowl became more pronounced, but she didn’t say anything about it.

“Did you organize the hit?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Nah. I’m more of the direct action kind of murderer. Besides, I got no friends amongst the staff. Barring Kimball, I guess, but you know Kimball. She’s just sooo… vanilla? All about getting me to become a reformed citizen and blah blah blah.” Felix took a bite of the Snickers, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savored the taste. “Oh my god. If I stay in here for much longer I’m gonna forget what chocolate tastes like.”

“Would you fucking focus for a second?” South whispered angrily.

Felix pulled a face at her. “Fine. I’ll focus. Did you do it?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“Only you’d consider it a dumb question. Fuck, you make the most sense. With O’Malley dead, there’s no-one to say that I was involved in what happened to Wash.” Felix took a step forward. “Which means no-one to say that you gave me the goods.” Felix raised his empty hand, fist closed, and tried to tap his knuckles against South’s forehead. “Use that bleached coconut, South--”

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch me,” South snarled, smacking his hand away sharply.

Felix didn’t seem perturbed. His smile just took on a more patronizing quality. “Alright, Cavewoman. Don’t hit me with your club.” After a moment of silence, during which South seethed and Felix continued to gnaw on the Snickers bar, he said, “So they don’t know who did it?”

“Not yet. ‘Pending investigation’ or some shit. No suspects,” she grunted.

“Bullshit,” Felix said amiably. “There’s always suspects. Make an educated guess. Not that they’ll make an educated guess. I bet they ain’t gonna arrest one of their own. Slap on the wrist, at best.”

“If it was up to me, I would throw the killer a party. With the actual investigation? Fuck, who knows. But suspect-wise, there’s not a person in this prison who wouldn’t want O’Malley dead. They’ll be searching forever,” South said dismissively.

“Pity,” Felix mused as he turned back to the shelves. “Because whoever it was just did us one hell of a favor. Kind of feel sorry for Wash, though.”

“Fuck off,” South said bitterly. “You put him through that shit and now you’re gonna do that faux-sympathetic bullshit?”

“Oh, he can deal with a little torture, I ain’t apologising for that. But I had my bets on him returning and doing the job himself. Guy seemed like the type. And you don’t fuck with a man’s revenge.”

South rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just tell me if you hear anything.” She looked at Felix for a moment, mouth twisting, before reaching out and snatching the half-eaten Snickers bar from his grip.

“Hey. Rude!”

South took a bite of the Snickers in response before flipping him off. “Yep. Quit stealing in front of me, it’s a fuckin’ mockery. Now get back to work, inmate.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Ohh, the corruption. It burns.”

“Suck a dick, Felix.”

 

* * *

 

At lunch, Church announced the news in a fashion that, in his opinion, was definitely the right level of class and respect.

“Guess who just got murdered?” he said cheerfully.

Tucker tilted his head slightly, eyebrows scrunching together as Church sat down. “Was it Church, after he was killed by an overly cheery doppelganger who has no business speaking in that sing-song tone?”

“Nah, something even better.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Whoever legislated the ban on Kinder Eggs!” Grif suggested.

“Is this a game now?” Donut asked.

“Murder is not allowed to be a game,” Caboose said seriously. “It is mean to be happy about murder.”

Church leaned back on his chair, grinning. “O’Malley. He’s fucking dead.”

Caboose let out a gasp similar to that of someone being handed a sudden but thoughtful present. “Oh! Nevermind. Yay!”

“Ohh shit, for real? About fucking time,” Grif said. “God, I wish I had some booze for a toast.”

“ _You will not ruin this with your alcoholism,_ ” Lopez said. “ _How did he die? Was it painful? It better have been painful._ ”

 _“I don’t know who we’re talking about_ ,” Dos whispered to Lopez.

“ _O’Malley. Bag of dicks. Don’t worry about it,_ ” Lopez said impatiently.

“He probably just died of old age, guy was like a hundred years old,” Tucker said.

“Nah, it was like… a morphine overdose or something,” Church said. “Investigation going on, so Tex couldn’t really tell me much detail in public. But forget that. The important thing is that fucker is dead and we need to celebrate.”

“Then get us some booze,” Grif said. “What’s the point of his death if it doesn’t get us booze?”

“Okay, you know what? Special occasion, so sure. I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t drink it all, drunkie,” Church said, waving his spoon at Grif.

“Are we going to have a moment of noise?” Caboose asked.

“A… what?”

“When someone dies, you have a moment of silence to be nice. So we should have a moment of noise,” Caboose said, nodding seriously.

“ _Every moment with you all is a moment of noise_ ,” Lopez grumbled.

“I guess a party would count as a moment of noise,” Tucker mused.

“You’re gonna have to remind me, though. Although this is all one thing I kind of hope I forget, just for the joy of getting to learn it fresh all over again,” Church said, grinning.

“I can wake you up with it. ‘Morning, Church, O’Malley’s still dead.’”

“Oh, that’s brilliant.”

The only one at the table who had said nothing so far was Donut. Donut was prodding absently at his food, scooping up some of the stew only to let it fall back into the bowl. Eyebrows scrunched up and a thoughtful frown on his face.

Despite the fact that Tucker couldn’t see him, he was the first to pick up on Donut’s mood. “You moping about this, Donut? Any time you go quiet, it usually means you’re doing your angry chicken thing.”

“I’m not brooding,” Donut huffed.

“Well, you look like you are,” Grif remarked. “Who shit in your bed, Donut?”

“It was not me,” Caboose said quickly.

“Metaphor, dipshit. Metaphor.”

“I know you’re always nice and all that bullshit, but come on. I thought you’d be the happiest of all of us after all that shit O’Malley put you through,” Church said. “I mean, I got my issues with him but he never tried, y’know--”

“Don’t remind me. No, I’m not unhappy he’s dead,” Donut said. “He deserved it. Guy was a diiiiick.”

“Massive dick,” Church agreed.

“And yeah, I’m up for any distasteful excuse for a party, that’s my jam. Everything can be made better with parties. But O’Malley was in the shoe, wasn’t he? After what happened to Wash?”

“Yeah, something like that. Who cares?” Church said impatiently.

Donut looked around at the others. He was still playing with his spoon, starting to absently twirl it as he looked around the cafeteria. Eyes lingering on any guards who were keeping watch. Donut eyed them, then looked back at the others.

“I care, because that means a guard did it. And I don’t like the message that sends.” Donut gestured in the vague direction of the shoe. “‘We can put you away and you might never come out.’”

Caboose’s face immediately went from ‘it feels like Christmas morning’ to ‘it feels like Christmas morning but I’ve got coal in my stocking and Santa’s about to beat me over the head with it.’ Tucker let out a ‘pssh’ noise, leaning back on his chair.

“It was O’Malley. You know, the crazy asshole? He’s gotta be on a different ruleset,” Tucker said.

“Regardless of my feelings on that asshole, they did him dirty. That means they can do us dirty, too,” Donut muttered.

The table went quiet. No-one even admonished Donut for using the phrase ‘did him dirty.’

“Well, now my mood is just tanked,” Grif sighed finally. “Dammit, Donut.”

“Hey, we can still have a distasteful party. Those are the best ones!”

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, inside the spare storage room, Stassney was spilling the truth in gratuitous detail.

“--and he was just lying there, all… gooey and shit. And he smelt like everything I’ve ever expelled from all orifices, but like… if I just put it in a pile and let it rot and become its own garbage island.”

“Gross,” Sharkface said, in a slightly impressed tone.

“Right?!” Stassney said. “And there was also the smell of, like, that weird stew you guys eat, because that’s what I was delivering. So now I can’t eat anything that’s like a meat-slop, and that sucks because tomorrow was chili night and that's the best meat-slop of them all. Anyway, then I puked all over the floor and totally ruined the crime scene. Like, there were a bunch of the pills he probably overdosed on the floor, and that’s right where I threw up. And they were, like… green pills so, like… they became green lumps, and green lumps are the worst.”

Sharkface continued to nod, making an effort not to interrupt.

“I’m scarred for life. For life! I tried to talk to Blanton and Kilgore about it, and they told me to stop whining. And I don’t know if I can talk to a therapist about it, because job confidentiality.”

“...Aren’t you breaking job confidentiality right now?”

“Well, yeah,” Stassney admitted. “But we’re already fuckin’ and that’s already illegal, so I’d already be in trouble.”

Sharkface shrugged. “Makes sense.”

Stassney shifted uncomfortably on the floor. He wasn’t currently wearing pants. He’d cut through their usual fifteen minutes of cryptid debate that time and insisted on sex first before explaining what had happened. It’d been a little awkward and clammy, but with a lot of energy.

“...You know, most people don’t want to fuck after seeing a corpse,” Sharkface said conversationally.

“Listen, I basically saw the Grim Reaper and it made me real aware of my mortality. I needed to do something that only alive people can do,” Stassney said.

“Necrophiliacs exist.”

“Ugh, they don’t count. The corpse isn’t an active participant.”

“Zombies.”

“...Shit, you got me there.”

After five minutes more talking followed by another round of Alive-And-Not-A-Necrophiliac sex, Stassney retrieved his pants, muttering about how his knees were all scraped up from the cement floor, and headed back to work.

Sharkface headed for the cafeteria instead. By the time he got there, lunch was mostly over. A lot of the inmates had dispersed towards the yard. But he saw C.T sitting down still, talking quietly with Demo. Sharkface made his way over, slapping his hands against the table to alert them to his presence before sitting down across from them.

“So, you heard?” Sharkface asked quietly.

“The murder? Yeah, Girlie told me,” C.T said.

“Did she tell you the method? The morphine pills? Our morphine pills?”

C.T raised his eyebrows, leaning further forward as well. “How do you know they were ours? She didn’t even say they were pills, they were just told--”

“I got a man on the inside. Saw the body. Threw up on it a little. Hardcore shit,” Sharkface said seriously.

Demo covered his face. “Oh my god, was it that guard you’re--”

“Hell yeah it was.” Sharkface leaned back on his chair and grinned at Demo. “Told you. Seduction is a fuckin’ tactics game.”

“Ugh. Pills, control your son,” Demo muttered into his hands.

“Are you kidding? This is information.” C.T tilted his head, squinting at Sharkface. “You’re sure? You’re sure they’re ours?”

“The ones the twins send are green, and he specifically mentioned that the ones O’Malley choked on were green. It was a long, graphic explanation. I’m pretty sure. Either the colour is one hell of a coincidence, or--”

C.T nodded before looking towards Demo. “Talk to Manly and Birdie. Ask who’s bought the morphine pills. Who’s confiscated them. Who’s dealing them. Everyone. I bet we can trace this shit.”

“Alright, I’m on it.” Demo shoved a couple more spoonfuls of mystery meat into his mouth quickly before abandoning his food and heading out of the cafeteria. Sharkface immediately reached over to swipe the remains.

“Good work,” C.T told Sharkface.

Sharkface didn’t respond, although he grinned sheepishly in a way that reminded C.T of when he was ten and trying to show his paintings to C.T. It was a grin that not many people got on the other end of.

C.T smiled back a little, before looking down for a moment. “Although, now that it’s been brought up… I do have words for you about your, uh… method.”

“Ughh, Daaaad--” Sharkface whined.

“I know you’re not going to listen to me, and that telling you this is just going to make you want to do it more. Or… him more, in this case. But take it from me.” C.T looked at Sharkface for a long moment, eventually letting out a long sigh. “Having a fling with the enemy… there’s excitement in that, excitement that’s very easy to get addicted to. But… it will go wrong. So I’m asking you to at least consider these words. Put the fucking brakes on it before that happens, or it’s going to hurt.”

Sharkface waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Trust me. You fucking don’t.”

“Nah, this ain’t gonna be like the time I bunked up with a guy and we started running insurance frauds. This time, I’m gonna drop it before it gets too intense.”

“This is very--wait, what? When the fuck did that happen?”

“Eh. It’s in the past.”

“Oh my god, Terrence.”

 

* * *

 

Doc had spent the last couple of days waiting for police to kick his door down. It didn’t matter whether he was at home or work. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. He could only wait. It was enough to almost make him want to confess.

Almost.

Now he was sitting at his desk, dry-washing his hands as he stared down at his paperwork without reading it. He hadn’t gone to the breakroom all day, for fear of walking into a conversation about the murder. He was sure he must have given himself away somehow. By not saying anything, or simply his heartbeat going wild that entire meeting.

Every noise made him flinch, down to the tiniest creak. Somehow, the more subtle, quiet noises were worse. The noises that could have been footsteps approaching his office. Police kicking down his door was one thing. The quiet noises made him think of O’Malley, and the idea of O’Malley appearing in the doorway again…

Perhaps there were worse things than being found out.

The office door creaked open, and Doc’s head jerked up in response. But it was just York, watching him with his hand still on the door.

“Bad time?” York asked.

“What? No. No... “ Doc muttered distractedly. “Just in thought, that’s all, uh… is this about drinking? Because, I mean, I don’t know if I’m up for--”

Doc’s words caught in his throat as York closed the door and locked it behind him. That little click made his skin crawl. He blinked a couple of times before forcing a smile onto his face.

“I’m just… I mean… did you need something? I’d… I’d rather keep that unlocked, if you don’t mind--”

“Did you kill him, Doc?”

Doc stopped, staring at York. York stared back with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

For one moment, he was sure his heart was going to make a break for it. And then… then he just sighed and leaned back on his chair.

“What gave me away?” he asked quietly.

York stared at him for a moment longer, a disbelieving expression crossing his face, before he covered his face. “Oh god. I was hoping I was wrong. Goddammit.” He kept his face covered for a moment longer before brandishing his hands at Doc wildly. “What the hell, Doc?!”

“York, calm down. Alright?” Doc said, raising his hands slightly. “Just… calm down.”

“Calm down?! You… you… Christ!” York strode forward, putting his hands on Doc’s desk and leaning forward.

Doc leaned back a little, trying to put some distance between them. “York--”

“What. The hell.”

“Could you maybe… maybe back up a little?” Doc asked, though his voice came out as little more than a whisper.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” York rubbed a hand over the side of his face before speaking in a quieter voice, one more akin to a teacher trying to explain something to a troublesome child. “He was going to be transferred, Doc. He couldn’t have touched Wash again. I get it, I do, but--”

“No, you don’t. You really don’t,” Doc muttered.

“Fine, maybe not! Not like anyone ever tells me anything! But you know what I do know?” York said, voice getting louder again. “I know not to kill someone with something that is so freaking traceable! Fuck, how do you think I realised it was you?”

Doc said nothing. He just started dry-washing his hands again, staring down at his desk.

“You used pills that you confiscated from an inmate. That I helped you confiscate! We’d be prime suspects anyway, and you went and did that? We’re fucked! You know that, right? We. Are. Fucked.”

With each of those last three words, York smacked his hand down on Doc’s desk, seemingly oblivious to Doc’s minute flinches.

“What are you going to do if Scully blabs, huh? Inmates don’t normally do that, but in this case… and suppose if he does? What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Doc said quietly.

“Scully’s still in SHU from when I busted him. Are you going to sneak down there, too? Get rid of the witnesses? Or was this a one-time thing?”

“Scully can say whatever he wants and I’m not going to stop him,” Doc said, speaking in the direction of the desk and not looking at York.

“Jesus,” York muttered. “I should be relieved to hear that, but jesus. Seriously, were you thinking at all? About witnesses? Evidence? Anything? Or did you just do what felt natural?”

Doc abruptly slammed his hands down on the desk. York immediately stepped back, letting go of the desk and raising his hands slightly, looking spooked.

“I thought about it, alright?!” Doc snapped. “Maybe I didn’t think through those practical details, but I thought about the stuff that felt important. Pros and cons, ethics, thinking about all the things I could do, all the softer options, all the things that I could undo if I was wrong. All of that, floating around up here!” Doc jammed a finger at his own head. “But you know what, York? You know what?!”

Doc stared York down, hands flat against the table. Then his arms relaxed a little, and he folded them on the desk.

“None of that mattered. All those reasons were anthills compared to the mountain that said that O’Malley was... was what he was. That there was only one way. So don’t act like I did the first stupid thing that came to mind, because… because what I did, I would do it again. And again. And again. So just… please. Please! Just… stop yelling and take a step back so I can breathe, alright?!”

York said nothing for a moment, instead looking away and clearly biting back a response. Doc glared at him for a moment, then his gaze softened and he sighed.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled,” Doc said.

York put his hands on his hips, looking down, before fixing his stair back on Doc.

“Then what are you going to do? If you didn’t think about it then, think about it now.” He still sounded angry, but like he was trying to keep it suppressed. There was a noticeable tremor in his voice. “Because I am not going down for this.”

“I know that I don’t intend to let anyone else go to prison for what I did. That’s… that’s all you need to know, York. Honestly, you know too much already. Maybe… maybe you should go before you get labeled an accomplice.”

“Oh, that ship’s sailed,” York muttered.

He turned and headed towards the door, unlocking it once he reached it but not immediately leaving. He sighed, looked back at Doc.

“I’m not getting put away for it. But… I know why you did what you did. So I’ll keep quiet. As long as I can. But next time… can you at least tell me before you go implicating me in murder?” Then he was gone.

Doc sighed, returning to staring at his papers and rubbing his hands over and over. York’s words weren’t much of a comfort. York, historically, had always been a terrible liar.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Donut had a lot of trouble coaxing Caboose out of the blanket fort.

“Come on, Caboose. We’re going to miss out on the good fruit.” Donut tugged Caboose’s arm, but Caboose pulled it back into his little bundle of blankets.

“No. I am safe in the fort.”

“You’ll be safe out there. No-one’s going to put you in the shoe. If we play it nice--”

“They are going to remember,” Caboose interrupted. “They are going to remember that I hurt people. They will remember Phil. They will remember the policemen. They will get angry, and they will put me in the croc.”

“Ugh, don’t even bring up crocs, those are the worst.”

“Then they will make me go to sleep, too,” Caboose continued, eyes wide. “I do not want to do that again. I like being able to wake up.”

Donut grimaced, looking away for a moment. He couldn’t lie to Caboose and say ‘the guards would never do that.’ He couldn’t have said that before O’Malley turned up dead in the shoe, let alone after. Not after all that shit with Wash. Not after York turning a blind eye.

Instead, he stretched out his hand again and gripped Caboose’s. He didn’t try to pull him out yet, just kept his grip firm.

“Caboose, I know it’s scary. But I won’t let them do anything to you. I won’t leave you alone today. If you’re not alone, they can’t get you. If you do nothing, they can’t take you down there. I won’t let them, and if they try I’ll make the biggest fuss.”

“The biggest?”

“The biggest,” Donut confirmed. “I’ll yell until they lock me up, too. Let’s see them ignore that.”

“I do not want you in the loafer either, Struffoli.”

“It will be okay, just--”

As Donut spoke, he heard raised voices break out further down the row. Donut looked up, then looked back at Caboose who was now sinking further into the blankets with a spooked expression. Donut sighed, patting Caboose on the hand before letting go and standing up.

“Hold on. Stay in the fort, I’ll be back.” Then he hurried to the door, peeking past the bars to see what was happening. As he did, he heard the sound of something hitting flesh and a yelp. He saw a guard, Blanton, standing over an inmate with his nightstick drawn.

“I told you to shut up and get moving, Rookie.”

“Fuck, that was my face, asshole! What’s your damage?!” 

“You going to go? I don’t have time for this, we have deadlines to meet. Get moving!”

The inmate, Rookie, glared at the guard over his hands, which were clasped over his nose. He looked like he was gearing up to say something else, and Blanton wasn’t lowering his nightstick. There were inmates watching, but they were all lingering back so as to not get caught in the firing line.

If someone got beaten up outside their cells, it’d be impossible to get Caboose out of the fort. Donut quickly hurried forward. He reached out and grabbed Rookie by the shoulders, moving him back, and quickly situated himself in between Rookie and the pissed-off guard.

“We’re gonna go. It’s fine,” Donut said shortly, staring the guard down. Behind him, Rookie looked at Donut for a moment, then looked at the guard and gave a somewhat sarcastic thumbs up. Said thumb was a little bloody, since it’d been holding his nose a few moments ago.

Blanton glared at Rookie for a moment. When he looked at Donut, the glare softened into a merely suspicious look.

“Fine.” He looked at Rookie. “I better not have to do this again tomorrow.” Then he left, returning to getting inmates to move out of their cells and towards the cafeteria. Donut waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Rookie.

“What the hell was that?” he asked.

Rookie rubbed his nose. “God, does my nose look broken? Does it? This is my best nose.” After prodding it warily a few times, he lowered his hands. “Thanks. Owe you one. I don’t know what the fuck his problem was.”

“Were you asking about the murder?” Donut asked.

“Fuck no. I just wanted to know when I was getting my beanie back,” Rookie complained. “I lent it to Andersmith for one day, they took it because it was stuffed with ‘contraband’--fancy name for a bunch of voting slips--and I just wanted to know when they were gonna give it back.”

“They hit you just for that?”

“Well, I only got as far as ‘I wanna ask about--’ and then bam. Those guys are jumpy as fuck. And they don’t like me because I killed a cop, so like… I’m already on the shit list. Not even my fault, by the way. I was just trying to blow a vault door, not my fault the cop decided to stand real close to it. And he’d just said I had the right to remain silent.”

“...Right.” Donut lowered his voice. “Look, can I ask a favor? Can you not talk to any guards while Caboose is nearby, in case that happens again? I’m trying to get him out of the fort.”

“Yeah, okay, okay. You got it.”

Donut waited for Rookie to go, still rubbing his nose, before retreating back to the cell. Caboose was now sitting up on the bunk, still bundled up. He let out a sigh of relief once Donut reappeared.

“See? It’s fine,” Donut said. He extended a hand. “Come on. Let’s go get some cereal.”

Caboose hesitated, but this time he let Donut pull him out of the fort and lead him towards the cafeteria.

 

* * *

 

Grif was the only one at the usual table, with the others still waiting to get their food. Still half-asleep, he yawned and gnawed on his bread roll. As he did so, eyes shut, he was shaken out of his near-napping state by the sound of people tossing themselves into the surrounding seats.

When he opened his eyes, expecting to see the others from the Row, instead he saw two others. He knew their names--Andersmith and Palomo--but he hadn’t ever spoken to them before. They were both leaning forward and staring at him like he’d just emerged from a zoo.

“...Uh, what the fuck?” Grif asked.

“You’re Grif, right?” Andersmith asked. “Is that spelled with one or two F’s?”

“One. But what’s it to you?”

“We, uh… we heard about what happened down in the shoe?” Palomo said. “And Matthews, he said that you were really good with advice on how to stay quiet and below notice. I’ve… I’ve never been in prison, I wasn’t even really a criminal--”

“Oh, sure. Took a wrong turn to church, like the rest of us,” Grif said sarcastically.

“I took one of those!” Caboose plopped down at the table, holding his tray of food. “But that was person-Church, not building-church.” He looked at Andersmith and Palomo curiously. “...New friends?”

“No. They’re just…” Grif waved his hand vaguely before saying, “Look, do I look like a teacher to you?”

“You should ask Merveilleux,” Caboose said, pointing over at the cafeteria line. Donut was still in line, but seemed to be having some kind of debate with one of the servers over the quality of his fruit. “He is a good teacher.”

“More of a babysitter, really,” Grif muttered.

“Matthews recommended you. And you look experienced,” Andersmith said politely.

“Yeah, it’s the age and the alcohol stink,” Palomo said.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Listening to our elders is very important,” Andersmith said, nodding seriously.

“Also, I heard you chopped off a dude’s dick and that’s hardcore,” Palomo piped up.

“Okay, that never happened. I had a dream about doing that and maybe once I told Tucker I did so he’d stop hitting on my sister,” Grif said, pointing his spoon at Palomo. “Nah, I just beat a guy to death. And that has nothing to do with what I know in here.”

“But Matthews said you were super smart,” Palomo said.

“And I don’t appreciate being talked up. Is Matthews trying to ruin my lazy reputation? Tell him to stop. I spent my whole life building that shit up.”

“Yeah, the effort Grif puts into being lazy is fucking impressive,” Tucker said as he approached the table. He reached out to check the space where he normally sat down and ended up placing his hand on top of Palomo’s springy hair. “...Who the fuck is this? Get out of my seat.”

“I’ll slide across.”

“Oh god. Go away, Palomo.”

“Just get Bitters to repeat what I said. Write it down and pass it out to the fresh fish. Because I’m not some… mentor or whatever the fuck you think I am,” Grif grumbled.

“Bitters told us to go away and Matthews said that you were more eloquent about it,” Andersmith said.

Grif groaned, covering his face. Caboose gazed at Grif for a moment, then laced his fingers together and sat up straight.

“I will be a teacher,” he said.

“Oh god,” Grif muttered.

“You… should not hurt people that the guards like. That will make them angry. And you should find a best friend, but one that does not lie all the time. Sometimes… sometimes lies feel good. But they are not good,” Caboose said.

Palomo looked puzzled. Andersmith, on the other hand, laced his fingers together and leaned forward to pay better attention.

“If you are very scared, a fort will make you feel better,” Caboose said. “But that only works if your cell buddy is not scary, because you have to share.”

“Ugh, that doesn’t work for me. I’m stuck with Birdie,” Palomo said dismissively.

“I can see the appeal in platonic cuddling,” Andersmith mused. “I should run that by my cellmate.”

“Even if I could cuddle up to Birdie, I don’t wanna piss off that guy who hates sleeves. They might be boinking,” Palomo continued. “I’m not sure, I’d have to ask.”

“You should get four hugs a day. That is the optimal amount of hugs,” Caboose said, nodding.

Grif continued to keep his face covered. Tucker sighed, shaking his head slightly, and slapped his hand against the table.

“Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.” With each wrong, Tucker slapped his hand against the table again. “Wrong. You shouldn’t be hugging people, that’s like optimal shivving position. If you get that close to anyone, you better be topping so that you’re the one with the view of their back. I mean… Palomo, you sound kind of squeaky, so maybe being on top is unrealistic for you. So just try to make sure it’s more missionary.”

Palomo’s eyes flickered to the side as he thought about it. “I mean, I’m not much into dick. But that makes sense.”

“Man, it ain’t about being into dick, everyone’s into dick in prison, that’s all that’s on the menu. Trust me, as someone who’s gay-for-the-stay, everyone’s into dick.”

“Uh… no,” Andersmith said slowly.

“Eh, you’ll see.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I won’t be seeing that point of view,” Andersmith said politely. He turned back to Caboose. “Continue.”

“What? No, I want to hear more about the shivving positions,” Palomo protested.

Grif let out an elongated, exasperated groan before lowering his hands with a thunk. “Both of you, shut up!”

“Do you mean me and Smith, or…?” Palomo started.

“Just… everyone. Shut up. It’s too early for this shit and I can’t afford to get both coffee and snacks, so.” Grif put up a finger. “Survival tips for the bullshit going around. One: lie low.” Another finger. “Two: no sass, no ass.”

“No ass?” Andersmith asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ass. Ass-kissing. Didn’t rhyme otherwise. Three: go limp if a guard hits you. Four: get any contraband out of your cell. Five: just stick to your cell and sleep in, they can’t accuse you of anything in your sleep. There. Done. Now fuck off and let me eat. And bug those two for anything else--” Grif waved his hands at Tucker and Caboose. “Because I ain’t fucking interested. Go. Go!”

“Okay. Thanks!” Palomo said.

“It’s much appreciated,” Andersmith said. He turned his attention to Caboose and said, “I would like to discuss the rest with you at a more convenient time.”

“I like talking,” Caboose said, nodding.

“Excellent.”

“And we can talk about stuff, too? Yeah, Tucker?” Palomo said hopefully. “Also, is it true that a guy carved your eyes out? That’s intense. Did that happen?”

“Just shut the fuck up, Palomo,” Tucker sighed.

“Okay, to be continued. Gotcha.”

 

* * *

 

Delta, having not been in the mood for eating, had headed for the library early and was examining each book on the shelf reserved for authors in the K section. Checking for damage and whether inmates had been (either accidentally or on purpose) leaving pornographic content hidden amongst the pages again.

As he did so, he heard a tapping noise from further down the shelf. Looking up, he saw a pale hand poking through the shelving, trying to attract his attention. Once Delta was looking up, the hand retracted before appearing again, pushing a small package out. Delta looked around before approaching, taking the package.

“This is unnecessary,” he whispered.

On the other side of the shelf, Church rolled his eyes. “Hey. I made an excuse. It’s not even candy this time.”

Delta took a peek inside the package and grimaced. “I am not a fan of dried meat, either.”

“You don’t like jerky? What do you like?”

“You staying out of what doesn’t concern you,” Delta said.

“But you heard the news, right?” Church muttered.

“Yes.” And, frankly, Delta had very strong suspicions about who did it. “Have you heard anything about O’Malley’s will?”

“Not a word yet,” Church said. “I can’t really ask Tex about it. She’s… you know she’s Carolina’s sister, right? I couldn’t tell her what might be in that will. Can’t tell her who you are. You’d be falling over dead next.”

“That is a possibility,” Delta agreed.

“I got some advice about who he might have handed it to. Maybe they’re keeping it under wraps. Or maybe there never was a will. I hope that’s the case, for both our sakes. But I’m going to look into it, alright? I won’t forget. Tucker’ll remind me.”

Delta was quiet for a moment before saying, “Is your memory getting worse?”

“Well, I should get to breakfast before Grif eats everything,” Church said quickly, before heading for the library exit. Delta watched, then slipped the package of beef jerky into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Niner had her head in her hands, fingers rubbing at her temples again, when Flowers put a mug of coffee on her desk.

“If that is decaf I will murder you and be up on trial before whoever drugged O’Malley,” Niner said, not looking up.

Flowers laughed, sitting down on the edge of the desk and cupping his own mug of tea. “I know. Not decaf. Black, one sugar. I know what you prefer, same as everyone else in this prison. Even a good majority of the inmates.”

“You do know everyone, don’t you?” Niner said absently. She stopped massaging her head and picked up the mug, but didn’t sip yet. “Are they gossiping?”

“The inmates or the staff?” Flowers asked.

“Pick one.”

“Well, if the staff are gossiping they’re not doing it while I’m around. Perhaps because I have your ear. Or maybe they’re really being quiet, but… well, people love to talk.”

“Tell me about it,” Niner grumbled.

“The inmates, on the other hand… they’re asking a lot of questions, and the guards are getting a little vitriolic in response. It’s getting rather twitchy. I’m sure it’ll calm down over time.”

“Maybe.” Niner took a sip of coffee, eyes closing for a moment. “Mm. Jesus, Flowers. Why do you not run a cafe? I really could see you running a cafe, because… jesus christ, this is basically liquid gold.”

“As fun as that sounds, I prefer a little more excitement,” Flowers said, smiling. “Maybe once I age out of guard work.”

“Yeah, I should really look into that. A good half of the staff seem to be in their fifties or older. I don’t want to be the one to fire Tex, though.” Niner frowned, staring into her coffee for a moment before putting it down. “...Hargrove doesn’t want me to investigate it.”

“That so?”

“At the very least, he wants it to be delayed for so long that everyone forgets about it. This sort of publicity, after all… and no family members to demand justice. No friends, no nothing. We couldn’t have asked for a better victim,” Niner said dryly.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. ‘Huh.’” Niner sighed, looking up at Flowers. “That’s fucked up, isn’t it? And I feel like he must have had talks with the morgue they dropped O’Malley off at, because they’re being real vague on when the results of the autopsy are coming back. How hard is it to cut open a body?”

Flowers said nothing, only nodded vaguely. Lips pressed together like he was struggling not to say something.

“What’s with the look?”

“What look? This is just my face. Is it the wrinkles? I’m not as young as I used to be,” Flowers said pleasantly. “I’ve still got a good few years of guard work left in me, though.”

“You look like you’re eating a lemon. Spill,” Niner said.

Flowers considered it for a moment, then slid off the table.

“I think that it’s important to be open and honest,” Flowers said. “Secrecy is bad for everything. The skin, the soul, and inevitably it always comes out at the worst time.”

“So what are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing. I don’t have the faintest idea who might have done the deed. What I do know is that anyone who does know… barring perhaps a few of particularly sturdy moral fiber…” Flowers smiled, although this time his eyes weren’t touched by it. “They won’t tell. This is prison. No-one snitches.”

“That’s the inmates.”

“It’s still prison,” Flowers said. “And the guards, the staff… they value teamwork. They value the team. They value the worst of their own over the best of any inmate, and O’Malley… he was far from the best.”

Niner eyed Flowers dubiously. “And if you found out who killed him? Would you keep that secret?”

Flowers took a sip of his tea as he considered it. “I… am a big believer in teamwork, warden.”

They said nothing for a while. Both of them sipping their drinks. Niner staring into hers while Flowers watched her closely.

“You know I can’t let this go,” Niner said. “I don’t like having a murderer running around among the staff. Sends the wrong message.”

“That’s up to you. But I’d be careful.” Flowers got to his feet and headed for the door. “Hargrove is a hard man to ignore.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Niner muttered.


	13. Chapter Ten: Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days on. Niner tries to discuss possible new additions with Hargrove. C.T discusses Locus' former jobs with him. Tucker has a Sangheili lesson. York tries to find a drinking buddy. And C.T draws some conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Mostly transitional.

Church woke up to Tucker trying to feel out where his face was. This was a regular occurrence, although they rarely shared the same mattress during the night. Church remained quiet for a moment as Tucker grumbled under his breath before placing his palm smack again Church’s nose.

“Morning, asshole,” Church grumbled.

“Morning. Five days on. O’Malley’s still dead. You forgot about it yet?” Tucker asked.

“Nope. But thanks. Now get the fuck off my bunk.”

Tucker snickered, gave Church a pat around the approximate area of his ass (he ended up patting the thigh, but Church knew where he was aiming) and climbed to his feet. “And, by the way, still no sign of that ‘will.’ Think he might have been bullshitting you.”

“The will. Right.” Church propped his chin on his hand, rolling over to his side as he gazed at Tucker. “I dunno about that. It’s not really like O’Malley to do things by half-measures.”

“So?” Tucker said expectantly. “How you gonna look into it?”

“Oh, so it’s all up to me, is it? You’re supposed to help with the plans.”

“Yeah, but the moment you start asking about a will, it’s gonna be like announcing ‘I have a personal stake in this,’” Tucker pointed out, moving back over and sprawling out onto Church’s bunk, moving his legs over so they were trapping Church underneath the blanket. “You gotta be subtle.”

“That’s not my area.”

“Well, fine. Look, I gotta talk to Kimball in a few days anyway. She wants to talk to me about the parole hearing.” If Tucker felt Church tighten up slightly at the mention, he didn’t acknowledge it. “And she likes me. Like I’m not even saying that in my usual bow-chika-bow-wow way. I can check her. You can do Doc when you go see him about the goods. We’ll figure out North. I dunno how we’re gonna check Niner.”

“I don’t get shit from Doc for a while. He’s way stingier about the smuggling than Tex,” Church said. “And North… I dunno, the guards are kinda tense lately. I mean, North’s usually cool but that dude is related to South.”

“Hey, I’m all for just hoping O’Malley was spewing bullshit. This was your idea,” Tucker said.

“I hate my ideas. Get off my legs, you’re giving me pins and needles,” Church said, smacking at Tucker lightly. In response Tucker--of course--just sprawled out further. What an asshole.

 

* * *

 

Niner hated this job. She hated Hargrove. The man had no sense or tact about the stresses of being middle management. To him, this shit all was a distant concern that might blemish his mostly spotless reputation. And he saw no harm in foisting more bullshit on her at the worst times.

“I'm not taking more prisoners,” Niner snapped into the phone. “Not now. I've got enough shit on my plate.”

“The financial gain is too good to lose,” Hargrove said shortly.

“Financial gain? How good can that be? Just because--”

“Because Ruben Lozano is a wealthy man. And while Gabriel is an embarrassment, Ruben has certain familial obligations. I take care of his son, the prison gets a financial boost.”

“Enough to hire more guards? Or a dog trainer? Or fund the drug program that Kimball keeps pushing at me?”

“We’ll see.”

“Listen, this dump is shaken as it is. I can't be taking a fucking celebrity prisoner without some immediate compensation.”

“Gabriel is hardly a celebrity.”

“That isn't what the gossip magazines have been saying.”

“A man who runs a nightclub and has been on a couple of reality shows is not a celebrity. Once he's behind bars, the world will forget he ever existed,” Hargrove said dismissively. “We’ll get financial compensation and Ruben can be happy that his son isn’t out there embarrassing the family. Look, I can assign one more guard. Will that be enough?”

“Do I have a choice?” Niner muttered.

“Not really, no.”

“Fine. Fine… I guess another guard will do, but can they at least have some dog skills?”

“Unlikely.”

Fucker.

 

* * *

 

Locus was very good at waiting. He was very good at staying still for hours--even days--on end. He’d done stakeouts. He’d tracked people through cities, even managing to spot them when they entered into crowded clubs and tried to slip out discreetly. Locus did not brag, but his honest assessment of his own patience was that it was near-infinite.

Two things could challenge that patience. One was Felix, who had an amazing gift for being so infuriating it made Locus want to launch himself into the sun. The other, it turns out, was prison.

The problem with prison is that it was, at least for him, indefinite. He didn’t yet have a concrete method of doing his job, nor did he have the means to hone the skills he already possessed. He’d gone through the library for anything that might help, but of course they didn’t leave books relating to crime in a prison.

He had two options. The first was sitting and waiting. But even Locus could only do so much of that. The other was figuring out what little exercise he could do in a small cell.

“Weren’t you doing sit-ups two hours ago? And jumping jacks the hour before that?”

Locus looked up briefly to see C.T standing over him, watching him with a bemused but vaguely impressed expression. Then he returned his attention to the ground as he did another push-up. He’d lost count of how many he’d done so far.

“Yes.”

“...You little tykebombs sure do go forever, huh? Almost a pity that Sebiel’s not around to make more of you,” C.T mused, stepping further into the cell before sitting down on Locus’ immaculate bunk. In deep contrast to the crumpled mess that was Felix’s bunk. “Then again, maybe it’s for the best. I have questions for you.”

Locus did two more push-ups before climbing to his feet. “I had nothing to do with O’Malley’s death.”

C.T waved his hand dismissively. “I’m working on that. I’m sure you could find a way to break in, but you don’t strike me as the type to leave medication all over the floor. I want to talk about your past career.”

Locus stuck his thumbs in the pocket of his jumpsuit pants, trying to find something to grip and stop his hands from fidgeting. Talking was the only thing that Felix did better than him. Locus preferred to simply make people too afraid to ask questions, and that would never work on C.T.

“Very well.”

“You worked with the Director, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“The Chairman doesn’t like the Director much,” C.T said. “I can’t see Sebiel approving of that.”

“It was… after that,” Locus said quietly. “I never met the Chairman. I worked with Sebiel. After Sebiel, I took what work was offered to me. The Director happened to have a lot of work that needed to be done.”

C.T nodded absently. He got up from Locus’ bunk and started looking around the cell, slowly making his way over to the footlockers. “That’s fair. Work turns up where it does. What encouraged the change of heart?”

“I was informed of the Chairman and his connection with Sebiel. This was a year ago. I saw my opportunity to join back with the organization that made me what I am.”

“And what are you, exactly?”

“I am a professional.”

C.T knelt and slowly opened one of the footlockers, not bothering to ask first. He eyed the contents--a set of spare clothing, some hygienic products and nothing else--before closing it and unlocking the other one. In contrast, Felix’s footlocker was a mess of scraps of paper, photos, books, crumpled clothing and various snacks. He eyed this mess for a moment, then looked at Locus.

“Then why did you shoot your partner?”

Locus said nothing. C.T scooped up some of the photos, briefly picked up a half-open candy bar and examined it before dropping it back inside the mess, then stood up and started to go through the photos as he spoke.

“I researched you. Or, well... I had someone else do it. She told me that your name regularly came accompanied with another.” C.T waved the photos he was holding. “Rather convenient, this set-up.”

Locus’ hands clenched down tighter. Slowly he said, “If you think this is a convenient situation, then you have clearly not spoken to Felix.”

“There’s more than luck involved. A smuggler and an attempted murderer? Those aren’t natural cellmates. You should be with other murdering bastards. No offence.”

Locus said nothing to that. Only wrinkled his nose slightly in response. Instead, he paced slowly to his bunk and sat down. Linked his hands together in his lap in an attempt to stop the slight tremors that went through them.

“The cell arrangements came from Flowers,” Locus said. “Felix… had something of a bone to pick with me when he got here.”

“Because you shot him,” CT said.

“Flowers decided the only way for us to get over our differences was to be placed in close quarters and learn to live with each other.” Locus’ mouth twisted into something close to amusement. “It is more of a personal hell than the prison itself.”

C.T snickered. “Well… that does sound like Flowers, ulterior motive or not. But I can’t have traitors. You understand that, don’t you? At least not without good reason.”

“If I could have returned to the Chairman’s organization without blood, that is what I would have done,” Locus told him. “But, as I said… you don’t know Felix.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“Felix doesn’t like orders. He was what you’d call a loose cannon. Even with Sebiel… he was difficult to control at the best of times. Didn’t so much take orders as had to be cajoled into them with bribery and flattery. He does this job because he enjoys this job. Felix isn’t a professional. He’s a monster.”

“Lots of monsters in this business. That’s no reason for betrayal,” C.T said, fixing Locus with a mildly disgusted look.

“No. But Felix never would have rejoined anyone connected with Sebiel. Not after tasting freedom. No amount of money or compliments would drag Felix back to a cage. And if I’d tried to simply step out of the partnership...” Locus grimaced, shaking his head slightly. “Felix… is possessive.”

“A sadistic, possessive wild card who’d rather see you dead than in another job. Amazing that you lasted as partners for so long.” There was something in C.T’s voice as he said that. Doubt? The way C.T was tilting his head and watching Locus didn’t bode well.

“We compensated for each other’s weaknesses,” Locus explained.

“Hm.” C.T looked back down into the photos before tossing them back into the locker. “Well… give me some time to think on it. To… research a little more. You did have a reputation for good work, Ortez.”

“...I prefer Locus,” Locus said tersely.

“Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker really should remember what this guy’s actual name was. Ridiculous mass of apostrophes aside, it felt weird to call a guy ‘Santa.’ Especially since Tucker had no idea what he looked like. Did he look like Santa Claus? Tucker couldn’t help but imagine that it was so. But Caboose could have named the guy that for any number of reasons, pulling logic from that bizarre fantasy world of sunshine and nonsense that Caboose spent his time vacationing in.

“Tucker. Are you paying attention?”

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, of course,” Tucker said, trying to pull himself back into the present.

Apart from him and Santa, the library was quiet. Just them using a table in the corner for their lessons, as they had done regularly for the past year. Sometimes people tried to shush them, but not often. Even if it was just through him being linked to Church, no-one was gonna mess around with Tucker for such a trivial reason. Barring C.T perhaps.

“I just don’t get why all these sentences are so fucking obtuse. Everything in this language sounds like blarghs and honks to my ear, but then it’s like… fucking medieval phrasing bullshit.”

“It’s a basic grounding of the language,” Santa said.

“Why do I need to know how to say ‘take care not to begin anything of which you may repent,’ exactly? Is this meant to be fatherly advice? Because if so, I prefer that one phrase about being beware of prostitutes. Fucking itches, man,” Tucker grumbled.

“In any case, we need to work on your pronunciation. Sangheili is a very delicate language. Tone means everything,” Santa muttered. Tucker could hear him flipping through some notes on the subject.

“It would be pretty sweet if I knew enough to talk by the time I get out,” Tucker said wistfully. “Start the whole ‘catching up on twenty years of dad work’ good.”

“Well… it’s not completely out of the question.”

“Wow. The confidence.”

Santa said nothing, although Tucker got a vague sense that he was rolling his eyes. As he did so, Tucker thought he heard footsteps nearby. He had a decent sense for how fast people were moving based on footsteps, and whoever this dude was… he sounded almost sneaky.

“Is there someone behind me?” Tucker asked.

There was a pause before Santa said, “Can I help you?”

The response was a voice that Tucker couldn’t place. “Why’re you teaching him that dialect? It’s old as fuck.”

“He’s got a point,” Tucker admitted.

Santa sighed. “Do you want to learn in the fashion I have available? Or not at all.”

“Alright, fair point.”

The unknown person grunted and moved further down the row of books, still near but not quite as much. Tucker waited for a bit, then returned his attention to Santa.

“So… what now?”

“Take it from the top. Pronunciation.”

“Alright, fuckin’... eloquent bullshit. Uh…” Tucker switched over to Sangheili. “‘ _If he proceeds to state what he pleases against me, he shall have someone in return that it will please him to touch._ ’ ...Is this about hitting on chicks? Like the dude had super good words and the lady’s all about it?”

“...That pronunciation was either very off or you got several words wrong entirely,” Santa mused.

The footsteps moved closer, this time going around the table to where Santa was sitting, as the stranger peered down at Santa’s notes.

“Yeah. You were supposed to say something about how ‘if someone says whatever shit he wants, then eventually someone’s gonna tell him he’s a fucking asshole,’” the stranger said.

“That is the more colloquial form, yes,” Santa admitted.

“Can’t I just learn words?” Tucker grumbled. “Dude, I don’t think you know how to teach a language.”

“I think you’ve hit your limit for today. Should we try again tomorrow?” Santa asked. There was the sliding noise of him pushing back his chair as he got up.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tucker grumbled.

“Until tomorrow.”

Santa’s heavy footsteps faded away. Then the chair shifted again as the stranger sat down in Santa’s vacated seat.

“It took me nineteen years to find a dude who knows Sangheili. How the fuck do you even know it?” Tucker grumbled. “Who’re you, anyway, I ain’t picking up your voice.”

“Sharkface.”

“Oh, yeah… yeah, now I remember. You’re always yelling at Felix in art therapy and throwing shit. Dude, I don’t think art is real therapeutic for you.”

Sharkface grunted. There was a squeak as he shifted on the seat. “No. Not really.”

“Where you learn Sangheili? How come the only kind I can learn is this anarchic shit?”

“Babysitters. Parent’s friends knew it,” Sharkface grunted shortly.

“You grow up in that Sangheili neighborhood in the city? It’s the only place I’ve even heard of that language. Just Crunchbite and Smith and shit, always babbling with C.T about--”

Tucker stopped dead cold mid-sentence as it clicked. A moment passed, Tucker’s hand paused where he’d been gesturing as he spoke, then he pulled it back, crossing his arms on the table.

“...Jesus Christ, Terrence, is that you? Why did you pick the worst shark name ever? Jaws was better than that shit.”

There was a pause, then a snort. “You figured that out quicker than I thought you would.”

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to put together ‘the shark-named guy who speaks Sangheili’ with ‘the shark-obsessed kid whose dad hangs around almost entirely Sangheili people.’” Tucker tilted his head, a lot of questions going through his mind before he settled on one of the less urgent ones. “How’s C.T? The proper C.T, I mean.”

“None of your business is what she is,” Sharkface grunted.

Tucker was very aware of every little squeak and creak as Sharkface shifted in his chair. Still, he tried to sound calm.

“Hey, C.T was cool. I was just wondering. I mean, your asshole dad isn’t gonna tell me and I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

“Nor will you. Who took out your eyes? I’d like to buy them flowers.”

“You can put those flowers on Miller’s grave, because he’s fucking dead. That’s what happens when people fuck with me.” Tucker drummed his fingers on the table, though soft enough that it didn’t block out the noise of Sharkface’s movement. “So… what’s the plan here? Revenge?”

A pause. Then a long, slow creak. Tucker knew that Sharkface was leaning forward. Could almost see him linking his hands together in that slightly ominous way as he did so, although in Tucker’s mind he was still a ten-year-old in a shark hoodie.

“When you got here? Yeah. That was the plan. I was going to set fire to your bunk,” Sharkface said casually. “Watch you burn alive. But I wanted to give Dad dibs and you had a cellmate.”

“And now?”

“Now?” There was some consideration. “Thing is that I never got a close look at you until now--trying to play it subtle and all--and, honestly?” Another pause. Tucker could just feel Sharkface staring him up and down. “I imagined that when this moment came, it would come with the same man I remembered. The one who had eyes and working lungs and was six feet tall.”

“I was never six feet tall.”

“I was ten, I didn’t know what the fuck height was. The memory is a little distorted. But seeing you in this pathetic state? As a blind old man? God, does that just ruin it.”

“So sorry to have disappointed you,” Tucker said sarcastically. “So what? We just go our separate ways?”

“No. You still have to pay.” Another creak, bigger, as Sharkface got to his feet. Tucker’s hands tightened on the table as he listened. “Oh, Dad might want you alive, but he doesn’t determine what I do.” Footsteps started to pace around the table. Slowly. “So maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Maybe the moment you achieve parole. Or maybe five minutes from now.”

The footsteps inched closer. And then a finger prodded Tucker right between the eyes, pulling back before Tucker could smack the hand away.

“You’ll never see it coming. Even so… I hope you put up a fight. I really do.”

The footsteps retreated. With that, Tucker was--as far as he could tell--alone. He sat back on his chair with a sigh.

“Fuck,” he said.

 

* * *

 

“...Are you still letting him do that?” Tex asked flatly, moments after entering the yard.

York blinked, turning around to look at Tex, before turning his attention back to Caboose. Caboose, in turn, was lying on the ground while Freckles lay across his stomach like a giant, hairy pillow.

“Mr. Big Apple, you should let Grumpy Dog lie on you,” Caboose said happily. “It is good and warm and it will make you less sad.”

York didn’t bother with words back, he just shrugged. C.C was sitting at his feet, already focused on Tex and growling lightly.

Tex wandered over, keeping a careful eye on C.C until she was near York. “Wasn’t Ohio supposed to be looking after Freckles?”

“Yeah. But she’s not great at holding onto the leash and inmates kept complaining that she was letting Freckles get too close to them,” York said. “Then Iowa tripped over the leash, Freckles escaped, ran right to Caboose. So…” He waved his hand vaguely at Caboose. “It’s fine.”

“Your funeral,” Tex said shortly.

She took a few steps away, intending to move onto her patrol, before York called out.

“Hey, uh… Tex, you wanna maybe go and drink after work or something?”

Tex stopped, pausing, then turned around and headed back. She gave York a slightly suspicious look.

“Why?”

“Well, I mean…” York shrugged. “I just… I mean, we are siblings-in-law.”

“We were siblings in law,” Tex corrected him coldly. “And we never hung out except when you were trying to get me and Carolina to talk. That never worked out. We barely shared three sentences before…” She trailed off, looking a little awkward, before waving her hand vaguely at the door back to the prison’s interior. “Ask Doc or North or someone.”

“North’s busy. And… Doc…” York frowned for a few long moments before saying, “He’s not in the mood. I’m not really in the mood. I just… please?”

“I’m not gonna be your next replacement,” Tex snapped. “Find a better way of dealing with being lonely, York.”

“Jesus, that’s cold. Fine,” York muttered. “I got tons of people to talk to.”

“Then be my guest.” With that, Tex resumed her patrol. York watched her go, looking somewhat depressed.

Caboose watched Tex leave, Freckles still sprawled across his chest, before peering at York. “I can hang out with you. We can be friends.”

“Thanks, Caboose, but uh… I dunno how much we have to talk about,” York said tiredly.

“I have lots of things to talk about. Like… like doggies. You like doggies, I like doggies. Now we are friends.”

“...Right.”

 

* * *

 

Donut was so sure that his Spanish was good. Four years of high school Spanish was the best way to learn a language there was, and talking with Lopez over the past decade could only have helped. But he was sure there was some miscommunication happening between him and Dos.

“Please. I know. You really love tennis. But we can’t play that here,” Donut said patiently, waving water-soaked hands at Dos. “There’s no court. Or racket. I could find a ball or two, maybe, but--”

“ _I am not talking about tennis!_ ” Dos protested.

“It’s really nice that you’re close with all your cousins, but I’m doing laundry. Laundryyy!”

“ _I know! I’m trying to ask how I’m meant to pay you!_ ”

“Look, Dos, can we talk about it later? You’re getting really heated and I’m not all that passionate about sports, to be honest,” Donut sighed.

Dos tossed his hands into the air in frustration and left, barely avoiding colliding into an approaching Felix. Felix glanced back at Dos as he stormed off.

“What’s up with him?”

“I dunno. He’ll calm down if he gets control of the remote and can switch it to, y’know… the channel that plays all the sports?” Donut looked down at his washing bucket, shoving his hands back inside as he scrubbed at the stains of Grif’s jumpsuit. Ugh. Grif’s jumpsuits were always the worst.

“Right, right, right.” Felix plopped himself down on the concrete like it was a comfortable sofa. “Your arm didn’t get infected?”

“Nah, it’s doing well. And only like three people laughed at me for having a horse with a sword on its--”

“Unicorn.”

“Hey, I ordered the design, I say what it is,” Donut said stubbornly.

Felix laughed before tapping his foot lightly against Donut’s bucket. “Hey, so I wanted to ask. What’s the big deal with your laundry? Like, how do you do that shit in here?”

“...With a bucket?” Donut said slowly, giving Felix a perplexed look.

“But how’s it come out better? I mean it must, or people wouldn’t pay you. I mean, I get you. Gotta have a hustle. I’m not judging because it’s kinda maid-ey for a prison inmate. But how do you do it better than the machines?”

“Uh, y’know… softener, nice stuff. Just normal stuff. Anything we use in the laundry room comes out scratchy.” Donut grinned at Felix and added in a lower voice, “Sometimes a guard needs clothes washed too? I can usually convince them to let me use the regular laundry room with my fancy shit if that’s the case, get the best of both worlds.”

“Nicee. I saw you cleaned Locus’ jumpsuit of paint. Think he was frowning a little less, and that is a fuckin’ miracle-hallelujah right there. Afraid his face might crack in two if he tries it more.”

“I’m very good at what I do,” Donut said seriously.

“Will you wash my stuff?”

“I got a queue. If you wanna get in line, feel free.”

“I have access to the commissary. I can possibly get you cheap candy.”

Donut’s hands paused. “...What kind?”

“You like Snickers bars? Because I got Snickers for days.”

“...I could be persuaded to let you jump queue.”

 

* * *

 

From the other side of the yard, C.T discreetly watched Felix chatter while pretending to pay attention to a library book he’d borrowed. At the same time, he periodically glanced around to check what guards were present. None he recognised. No Flowers.

Footsteps. Then Demo plopped down next to C.T, partially distracted watching two younger inmates play around with a soccer ball and argue about the rules they’d made up.

“I think I’ve cracked it. God, you just know these guys are not investigating hard,” Demo said cheerfully.

“So who did it? How’d you find out?” C.T asked, turning his attention away from Felix.

“I asked Manly and Birdie who was holding the morphine. Lucky for us, it was one guy doing the dealing on that. Could have been one of his customers, but he hasn’t sold enough for a full-on overdose like that.”

C.T nodded slightly. “Which dealer?”

“You know Scully? That whiny dude who hangs out with Murphy a lot? Always bitching about Jenkins, whoever the fuck he is.” Demo’s attention slipped for a moment, watching the ball-playing inmates as they argued. Words drifting over mentioned clubs and running. “You know the rules to their game?”

“Dude.”

“Sorry, right. Anyway, I asked Girlie to talk to him since he’s still bouncing around in the shoe. He said York’s the one who confiscated his pills. Grumbled about the guy putting him in timeout and having an angry mutt on hand, so he’s definitely not wrong.”

C.T’s eyes narrowed. He could see York from where he was, pacing the yard with the angry, possibly rabid dog and looking moody. “Yeah? That would make sense. So it’s personal justice, then.”

“Probably. Everyone knows he and Wash are tight.”

“Doesn’t that just seem… too easy to you?” C.T asked, tilting his head a little as he gazed at York.

“Yeah, but you know… the easiest answer’s usually the easiest for a reason.”

“True.”

“So what do you want to do about it?” Demo asked.

C.T studied York for a while, mouth twisting. Then he looked back at Demo. “Keep it under wraps for now. Could be useful later. Won’t get us anything if we spill it now. Besides… it’d be kind of snitchy. Tell Girlie to pass that onto Scully, don’t need him ranting about it.”

“Will do.”

C.T turned his attention back to Felix, at the same time idly turning a page in the book he wasn’t truly reading. Felix’s body language suggested that he was currently haggling with Donut over the price of clean laundry.

C.T wasn’t sure on Locus’ words. He sensed some clear bias in them. And, after all, Locus had shot Felix. There was no official record on that fact. Merely a lot of strong hearsay and events with ‘unknown parties’ happening in a similar timeframe. But Locus hadn’t denied it.

But Flowers put Locus and Felix in the same cell as each other, and C.T was inclined to believe there was a reason behind it. In Locus’ favor, what he’d said about Felix correlated with Sebiel’s old files.

The problem was, Felix had also been recorded down as a liar. A good one. His biggest strength and, in a working relationship, strongest flaw. Felix might be too good of a liar, even for C.T. He was good at reading people, but there were always exceptions. Connie, for one, even with his inside knowledge of her little quirks. And he’d never have the history he had with Connie to justify believing Felix, even for a second. Even without factoring Flowers into the equation.

“Demo. Can you also go and see Girlie?” C.T asked.

“What do you need?”

C.T very slightly nodded his head towards Felix. “I need him to talk. I need him to not lie.”

Demo grimaced, leaning in closer. “Dude, listen. You know that ‘truth serum’ is a load of bullshit, right? I can’t just find a magic pill or serum that’ll give you a clear picture. Neither can Girlie. Not even the twins--”

“It doesn’t have to be clear, elaborate truth. I just need to disrupt his ability to lie. I need him to tell me if he’s working with Flowers. With the Director. That’s a simple truth, if it’s the truth at all.”

“...Fuck, I guess that’s simple enough. Get him wasted, no problem. If it’s going in his food, though, that’s a big dose. Might kill him.”

“Then it’d be one less problem to deal with,” C.T said grimly.

“Fuck, dude, if you say so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Tucker was trying to say was something I borrowed from a list of Latin quotations. The unmangled phrase was: ‘If he proceeds to state what he pleases against me, he shall have something in return that it will not please him to hear.’ I chose it entirely because the person who said it was called Terence. (And I imagine Santa’s form of Sangheili is all very Old Latin style phrasing.)


	14. Chapter Eleven: Garlic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimball discusses a job with Doc. Grif tries to brew a new batch of alcohol. York and Delta have a meaningless chat. And Felix finds himself in a bad situation after not paying enough attention to his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, this probably should have just been mixed with the last chapter. Oh well. Couldn't get all the scenes I wanted done, but this as good as it gonna get for now.

Doc could not keep his focus together right now. He was pretty sure his counselling was falling apart because of it, but then again not many inmates had wanted to see him lately. Perhaps because of the distrust that seemed to have sprung up between inmates and staff lately. Still, too much was rolling around in Doc’s mind, too many worries, and the moment he didn’t have anything to do his brain just turned back into a seething pit of fear.

It made him very susceptible to being startled.

“Hey, Doc--”

Doc yelped, pushing his chair back from the breakroom table. Only to see that it was Kimball standing next to him, holding a glass of sweet tea.

“Jesus. You alright?” Kimball asked.

“Yeah! Yeah. I was just… thinking. You know how it is,” Doc said, smiling weakly.

“I can imagine. I haven’t really spoken to you since…” Kimball grimaced and gestured in the vague direction of SHU. “How’s Wash?”

“I… I don’t know. I asked the doctors. They said he’s getting better? But I think he’s still… kind of… they said that stuff kept upsetting him and they were still keeping visitors restricted to family. Which… I don’t know if Wash has family, but if he does…”

Wash hadn’t listed anyone as an emergency contact and his therapy sessions with Doc weren’t really official, so as far as the hospital was concerned Doc was just a random co-worker. And the hospital was particularly adamant about not letting random co-workers in due to the incident with York, followed by another incident where the triplets had attempted to go see him. They’d tried to sneak in when the doctors weren’t looking, using Iowa as a distraction, and now they weren’t allowed back and owed the hospital enough to pay for a dozen wheelchairs.

“I don’t know,” Doc finished, putting his head in his hands. “It’s fine. Um.” He rubbed his face for a moment before looking at Kimball. “Sorry, did you need to talk about something?”

“Well, apart from seeing how you were… yeah, I did.” Kimball sat across from him, putting her cup of sweet tea down. “Drug counseling.”

Doc lowered his hands a little. “Did Niner get someone?”

“No, and I’m pretty sure if we keep waiting on it then it’ll be years before we get someone, if ever,” Kimball grumbled. She tilted her head backwards and yelled, “Thanks a lot, Doyle!”

“We needed sniffer dogs and you know it, Miss Kimball!” Doyle yelled back, as he fiddled around with a tea bag at the kitchen counter.

“Do you two need to use the speaking ball again?” Doc asked. In response, Doyle shook his head and Kimball waved dismissively.

“This is quite benevolent by our standards,” Doyle said.

“Yeah, beforehand I would just ignore him and occasionally spill tea on his notes,” Kimball added.

“Comparatively--wait, that was you?”

“My point being,” Kimball said quickly. “That if we don’t run drug counselling ourselves then I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. Plus, it might help you… keep your mind off things, you know?”

“Maybe,” Doc said doubtfully. “Separate circles like with the art classes? Or just one?”

“I suppose that depends on who’s included.” Kimball tossed a few slips of paper on the table. “Got a list. We can go over it.”

“...Alright.”

Doc supposed he needed to keep trying to be useful while he still had the chance.

 

* * *

Locus was doing his usual after-lunch exercise routines in his cell when Felix yelled at him.

“Would you stop with the fucking jumping jacks? Get that starfish shit away from me.”

Locus frowned at Felix as he stumbled in, but said nothing. He did, however, shift back to push-ups in response.

“Fucking whipped,” Felix mumbled under his breath. His voice was slightly slurred. “Hey, when you’re talking to your buddies in the kitchen, tell them not to put so much fucking garlic in the mystery stew. Check this out.” Felix breathed in Locus’ direction. Locus didn’t smell much, except for the cheap toothpaste everyone in the prison used. 

“Garlic?”

“Yeah, the fuckin’... the garlic. Like it was nice at first and then the taste got really gross.”

Locus peered at Felix, frowning. Then he looked at Felix’s feet. They weren’t quite steady, mistepping a little as he headed for his bunk. He tried to hoist himself up to the top bank, but was having noticeable difficulty.

“I tasted no garlic.”

“Y’taste buds are shit, then,” Felix muttered. 

Locus looked at Felix, still struggling to climb onto the bunk, stopping his push-ups as he did so. “...You tasted something different about your food and you kept eating it?”

“It’s a fucking recipe switch! Just because all you eat is oatmeal and bland bullshit... Besides, roofies don’t taste like garlic,” Felix complained. “If I can taste that shit it’s usually salty, I know what I’m about.” He gave up trying to climb onto his bunk, instead rolling onto Locus’ bottom bunk. “This is mine now.”

Locus ignored that, instead stepping towards the entrance into the cell to check the outside. He stepped outside and almost bumped into Sharkface.

“Sup,” Sharkface said.

Locus looked at Sharkface, then at Felix and his current efforts to untangle himself from a blanket while muttering about ‘bullshit military bed folding.’ It clicked. “Oh. I see.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Sharkface rolled his shoulder a little, grinning. “I got some stuff to talk about with your old partner. Mind moving?”

“Do you think this will be reliable?” Locus asked slowly.

Sharkface just shrugged. “Not my job to wonder about that. Just to ask the questions.”

“Do you mind if I stay?”

“Be my guest.” With that and a vaguely condescending thump on the chest that Locus had to struggle not to bat away in annoyance, Sharkface headed into Locus’ cell. 

Locus stepped inside and retreated to the corner, clasping his hands together. Careful to keep them in sight. It might be easier to retrieve a weapon if they weren’t in view, but it would only serve to make Sharkface suspicious.

Felix untangled one arm from the sheets before staring at Sharkface blearily. “...Not you. Fuck off, fish food!”

Sharkface didn’t say anything immediately, just walked towards the bunk before propping one of his feet onto the mattress, shifting his weight so he was leaning on that leg. He gazed at Felix for a few moments.

“...How many fingers am I holding up?” he finally asked, holding up four.

“Fuck off, I’m not playing your dumb game,” Felix grumbled, trying to swat the hand away.

“Alright. You know what day it is? What month? How many inches? Give me something here, don’t want to be beating your ass just on the test questions.”

“Torture is unreliable,” Locus pointed out.

“Yeah, but he’s got such a punchable face,” Sharkface said. He snapped his fingers in front of Felix’s face. “Come on, give me some answers.”

“It’s… I dunno the day, we live in a fucking prison! It’s… October, probably,” Felix grumbled, rubbing his head. “And... four.”

“Four? Alright. Would have said more if you were lying,” Sharkface said.

“Yeah, well, that guy’s all about my four inches,” Felix said, waving his hand vaguely in Locus’ direction. “Ain’t you?”

Sharkface glanced over at Locus. “...Huh. There any truth to that?”

Locus didn’t respond, except with a slight shrug. There was no need to go into that history. He waited until Sharkface turned back to Felix, then carefully slipped a finger underneath one of his sleeves. 

Sharkface went back to grinning, leaning a bit more forward. “And what about you, Felix? What are your feelings on your old partner?”

Felix wobbled a little, still unable to sit entirely upright. He looked at Sharkface for a moment, then stared at Locus. Blinked sleepily a few times, before that expression turned to one of pure, seething hatred. 

Locus hadn’t seen that expression in a while. Felix was good at masks.

Then Felix looked back at Sharkface. A wide, strung-out grin spread across his face. Rage not gone. Just mixed up with mockery and amused pity. 

“Why d’you care, tin can?” Felix slowly, still half-wrapped in the sheets, shoved himself to his feet. Looking like he was about to collapse at any minute, but grinning like he was invincible. “Wish fulfillment? Sad that you couldn’t get in on it?” 

He was speaking barely above a whisper, and getting too close to Sharkface for comfort. Sharkface didn’t move, nor did he seem particularly impressed. 

Felix tilted his head before asking, “Seriously, aren’t you just a little embarrassed that you weren’t good enough, even for a place where that piece-of-shit no-leg-day traitor was their golden boy?”

Sharkface snorted. “Wish fulfillment about being a chess piece in Hargrove’s child labor arsenal? Nah, can’t say that’s big on my daydreaming list.”

“But you work with what’s-his-face. C.T? Baby Hargrove? You’re still a pawn,” Felix said. He waved a hand vaguely at Locus. “That guy’s at least a bishop. You, though… pawn. And the only way you’d ever become the queen that every little pawn dreams of being… Well, guess Baby Hargrove would be the queen, wouldn’t he? Moving about, doing all the work… ready to move in as the king once Hargrove kicks it. So tell me… where’s that leave you?”

Sharkface said nothing, simply watching Felix talk. His eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Felix swayed a little, and it was hard to say if him subsequently putting his hands on Sharkface’s shoulders was an attempt at making them closer or simply a way to retain his balance.

“Hey… hey, hey, hey, hey…” Felix whispered, like a child sharing secrets. “Are you next to inherit the crime empire if a little accident happens to dear ol’ Daddy? Or are there other Hargroves with priority?” Felix did a weird blink that might have been a terrible attempt at winking. “If you got that inheritance locked down, I would get if you decided to speed it along some. Fuck, let’s do it, I’d be down just for the funsies. Could always just murder Locus right now so he can’t tell anyone, because trust me… that dude would stab you five ways to Sunday.”

“...Wow,” Sharkface said flatly. “Just wow.”

Locus didn’t dignify the suggestion with a response, finger still hooked a little under his sleeve. Sharkface hadn’t noticed. He was fully focused on Felix.

“I knoooow, right? In exchange, I get all the red paint in art class,” Felix said seriously. He reached up, grabbing Sharkface’s face. “That’s my fuckin’ red paint. I need it.”

Sharkface grasped Felix’s wrist and yanked his hand away, causing Felix to let out an undignified yelp as it was twisted away into an uncomfortable position.

“I’ll be nice and pretend you didn’t just talk about killing my dad,” Sharkface said, even as he folded Felix’s arm behind his back. “But I got a better question for you now. ...How did you know about Hargrove?” Sharkface leaned in, squinting at him. “That is very odd information for a freelance merc to know.”

Then he let go, stepping back as something white flashed briefly through the air. Felix missed him by a wide margin, and might have even if Sharkface had stood still. Felix stumbled back, leaning for a moment against the bunk bed as he held a shiv. Locus had seen him shaping it in his spare time. It was made out of layers upon layers of toilet paper, much like paper mache. 

“Y’gotta… y’gotta back off now,” Felix said, swaying drastically as he tried to stare Sharkface down. He couldn’t. He kept blinking. “Y’gotta…” He broke out into a series of coughs. Locus wondered what they’d put in his stew.

Sharkface grinned. Then he moved. One movement, grabbing Felix’s arm again and forcing the shiv out of his hands. Second movement, slamming his elbow into Felix’s face. Felix went down like a sack of potatoes.

“...Does that mean you’re done?” Locus asked flatly, stepping forward to examine the scene.

“Are you kidding? I’ve barely started,” Sharkface said, kneeling down. He lightly prodded Felix, who seemed out for the count. “Rise and shine, merc. I’ve still got questions for you.”

As Sharkface tried to bring Felix to, Locus continued to mess with his sleeve. Slowly drawing the makeshift garrotte out of it, slow enough to keep it concealed in his hands.

It wouldn’t be ideal for Sharkface to turn up dead in his cell. But it might be necessary.

 

* * *

One more week, and it would be visitor’s day. One more week. Grif could make it one more week, no problem. Even if this lack of alcohol or… or anything… was making time inch along like a snail that had no sense of direction.

But, god, he didn’t think he could go for much longer without alcohol. And there was those meth-meth shrooms that kept coming to mind. The conversation with the Simmons that his brain had conjured. That… half-made him want to stuff his face with them, and half-made him want to never touch them again. Alcohol was a much more straightforward desire.

“What are you doing?”

Of course, Grif had chosen the cells being empty to try and mash his latest load of fruit into a bag and start a new batch of pruno. Partially because neither Donut or Lopez was around to stop him, but also because guards rarely patrolled the area too hard at this time. But Lady Luck was being a cheating whore today.

Grif looked up at the guard, Jensen, that had stopped outside his cell, staring back at him with bemusement. She didn’t look angry, she was just tilting her head and watching with bemusement.

“...Nothing,” Grif said.

“Are you making alcohol?” she asked.

“No.”

“What’s in the bag? It sure looks mushy.”

Grif looked down, staring at what was mostly oranges and bread crumbs. “...Protein shake.”

“Protein shake,” Jensen repeated doubtfully.

“Yep.”

Jensen sighed and held out her hand. “Give me the bag, Grif.”

Given how the guards were behaving lately, there was no way that Grif was going to fight against that. Especially since Jensen looked pretty young. He’d feel like an asshole if he fought back against a girl with glasses and braces. So he handed the bag over with no fuss. Jensen peered into it, shaking the bag slightly and watching the soggy crumbs as they were sloshed about.

“...You drink this?” she asked him, a touch of revulsion in her voice. “Bet it would smell awful if my nose wasn’t blocked up.”

“Well, who likes protein shakes?” Grif asked. “And it smells fine. Lopez is just a baby about it.”

“It is pretty gross!” Donut popped up, carrying an armful of laundry, and quickly threw a set of clothes and several pairs of underwear in Grif’s direction. “Change your clothes once you’re done, you smell like oranges.” 

“Yes, Mother,” Grif grumbled, scooping up the laundry.

Donut beamed at Grif and gave Jensen a quick, mildly suspicious look before pattering off down the corridor, still holding a fair amount of laundry. Jensen watched him go, then looked at the other end of the cell block, waiting for a moment, before turning back to Grif and lowering her voice.

“Look, I’m not going to write you up on this. It’s only a little bit, and… and, well, I’m kind of friendly with Andersmith. He told me you were mentoring other prisoners.”

“Oh my god, I am not.”

“Well, call it what you want. I just… I think that’s good, is all. I mean, you don’t have to tell me that things are a little nuts lately. Anything that keeps people calm is alright with me,” she said. She raised the bag. “Just don’t let me catch you with anything like this again, okay?”

“We’ll see,” Grif said.

“Close enough.”

 

* * *

Donut was plodding down the corridors with the rest of the dry, soft laundry. Humming lightly to himself and pretty damn excited at the prospect of Snickers bars. 

Truth be told, he was really more of a Skittles guy, and candy cigarettes--one of which he was currently sucking on as he walked--took priority over any other candy simply for aesthetic reasons. But he did love caramel, and Snickers hadn’t been a thing because Church took too long to get them and the commissary was too pricy about it. Price and speed were never aligned, and Donut had to be strategic about it. Had to think about the candy economy.

And that excitement had been utterly ruined once he’d heard multiple voices--none of them Felix--floating down the corridor. He hadn’t been able to make them out until he was practically next to the cell, and the moment he caught a glimpse of the scene he ducked back, still clutching the soft laundry.

“He better not be dead,” Donut heard Sharkface mutter. “Can’t take a blow to the face?”

“How much did you put in his stew?” Locus asked.

“I don’t know, it wasn't me… I’m not allowed in the kitchens, they said I was a hazard.” When Donut peeked through the bars, staying crouched and trying not to be seen, he saw Sharkface crouching over an unconscious Felix, lightly slapping him in the face on occasion. “Wake up already.”

“F’gh off…” Felix slurred, head rolling a little.

“Finally.”

“He won’t talk. You would have done better if you’d stayed friendly,” Locus said.

Sharkface shrugged. “Might as well try scaring it out of him. What have I got to lose?”

Donut looked at Sharkface and Locus. Then at Felix, who still seemed too out of it to do anything. Then he looked at his own arms. Much more muscular than they’d been a decade ago, splattered with scars from O’Malley’s attacks. He looked back at Sharkface. Perpetually shirtless, even in the fall. Showing off more muscle than Donut had. And then there was Locus, who was simply a giant. For all that he neglected working on his legs.

One-on-one, perhaps Donut could distract long enough to help. But not both of them at once. He could perhaps tell the guards… but what if he ran into York, or one of the others who couldn’t lie or didn’t have the sense to keep snitches quiet? They’d be out for Donut’s blood once they got back from the shoe.

Maybe this wasn’t his fight.

As Donut measured his odds, Sharkface shifted his position so that he was pinning Felix’s legs with his own, before locking Felix’s wrists in place with his hands.

“Do you see me? Do you understand the position you’re in?” he asked Felix quietly.

“Y’just a shitty pawn,” Felix groaned. ”Y’nothing…”

“Am I nothing? I might not have your training… but I have friends. Something you know nothing about. They got you drugged and I’ve got you pinned. And who’s going to help you? Locus?” Sharkface glanced at Locus over his shoulder, who didn’t move, before looking back. “You’re on your own. And you’re weak.”

Felix tried to move his limbs. They shook from the effort. Sharkface didn’t budge. Only pressed down tighter and leaned in.

“I can hurt you. I can burn you. I can do whatever I want.” He spoke barely above a whisper, and his tone was predatory. “So tell me how you know Hargrove’s business. Tell me your contacts. Tell me who you work for. ...Or I’ll give you a lot more than four inches.”

Donut pulled back a little, frowning. How Sharkface was pinning Felix down? That was very similar to how O’Malley had pinned Donut down in the infirmary. It’d been a decade, but Donut had never forgotten what that felt like.

If Donut did nothing, what did that make him? Wash? Fuck that. But how could he help?

An idea popped into his head. A dumb one. But perhaps one just dumb enough to work. Hopefully there was time.

Donut left the pile of laundry behind, took a few silent steps away, and then bolted for the yard.

 

* * *

Delta did not realise how reliant he’d been on computers to fill out his day until they were no longer an option. Nor did he realise how much he relied on Theta for company. He’d always assumed that he would miss Theta were they separated, but ultimately be fine.

It had been five weeks since he was incarcerated. He still had seventy-three weeks left. This was barring the possibility of O’Malley’s will being discovered and adding onto his sentence.

Church was not an option for company, unless Delta wanted to implicate him. Nor had Delta and Church ever been close friends. Long-standing co-workers, yes, but not friends. Delta was not, historically, the best at socializing. He’d never needed to be. That had been Sigma’s job, and after Sigma… after everything relating to the Director… Delta hadn’t tried doing so again. He’d stuck to hacking.

Delta stared blankly across the yard. He normally didn’t venture out into the yard, but as it turns out there was only so long he could spend in the library. Five weeks straight of infirmaries and libraries had left him antsy.

Prison was simply more isolating than Delta could have previously imagined. He’d always thought being left alone with his thoughts was the clearest, most efficient situation. He’d been proven wrong. That wasn’t even including what felt like the inevitability that someone would learn of his past mistakes.

There was O’Malley’s will. There was Washington, should he ever return to the prison. There was Doc, who had made it abundantly clear that he knew what Delta had done. Delta was relieved that he’d had the sense to tell Doc he had no intent to hurt Washington again, as he suspected that Doc had, perhaps, asked O’Malley the same question and gotten a more negative response. There were too many who could expose Delta, and while he accepted the consequences should they occur… it didn’t mean he looked forward to it.

He saw movement in the yard. Saw Caboose ruffling the fur of one of the sniffer dogs. Saw York standing nearby with the other dog, looking as listless and preoccupied as Delta was.

Delta watched York for a moment. Then he started to walk in that direction, and all the logic in the world couldn’t tell him what possessed him to do it.

As soon as he neared York, the dog pounced up and started snarling at him, pulling on her leash. York held her back, but it seemed a near thing.

“No. No, C.C! We talked about this! People with two eyes or more are friends. Friends!” he yelled. C.C quieted down, but continued to snarl a little. York sighed, then shrugged at Delta. “Might want to keep your distance.”

“Understood.” Delta kept his distance, and now that he was here he didn’t know what to say. “...You’re York, correct? You took me to the infirmary?”

“Yeah. You doing better after that? You were so out of it. But shit hits you worse when you get old, trust me on that. I mean, I am getting precariously close to sixty, I’m lucky I’ve got the boyish charm I do.”

“Yes. I am at optimal health now. I do not have the best recollection of what I said to you--”

“Just a lot of stuff about being oily, you’re fine. Ain’t offended,” York said, waving his hand.

“Oh. ...Good.” Delta tilted his head a little, watching York. “...Are you not able to retire?”

“I could retire. I’m, uh… pretty solid on funds, I had this… insurance thing.” York frowned a little, but shrugged it off. “But, y’know… where’s the fun in that?”

“Is there fun in being a prison guard?” Delta asked.

As he asked this, he saw Donut come hurtling out of the prison and skidding to a halt, looking around wildly. After a moment of hesitation, he made a beeline for Caboose.

“Well, there’s some fun in being a prison guard… sometimes,” York said, after thinking about it. “I don’t mean that in a sadist way, like… I hate hitting people. I dunno. Get to meet people.”

“There are bars for meeting people and they come with ninety-nine percent less chance of being stabbed,” Delta said.

As he said this, he saw Donut tug frantically on Caboose’s sleeve. His mouth moved, but his voice must have been low because Delta couldn’t make out the words. Caboose blinked at him, looked at York nervously for a minute, then cooed at the sniffer dog and followed Donut back towards the prison.

“That’s true. I haven’t been stabbed in a bar yet and I did get stabbed once on the job,” York said. Oddly, he seemed to be perking up a little despite the topic of conversation. “In the leg. Still hurts when it rains.”

Delta looked over York’s shoulder as Donut and Caboose disappeared back into the prison before looking back at him.

“The common theory is that wounds hurt in concurrence with the rain because of the drop of barometric pressure associated with a storm causes soft tissue and fluids around the wound to expand, thus irritating it.”

“...Like a sponge,” York said after a moment. “Gross.”

“It is unproven. Barometric pressure seems to affect people differently.”

York tilted his head, peering at Delta for a few moments. His mouth had twisted into a wry grin.

“You realise I’m a guard, right?”

“I have made that assumption, yes,” Delta said.

“You really want to be the inmate that’s getting all chummy with the guards? People might think you’re a snitch.”

Delta gazed at York for a moment. Fully aware in that moment that he’d likely ruined this man’s life when he gunned down Carolina. There was a moment of white-hot guilt in his stomach before it settled into a quiet simmer.

“There are worse assumptions for one to make,” he said.

“If you say so. Hey, I won’t turn down the chatter.” York turned, then paused. “...Where the fuck did Caboose and Freckles go?”

 

* * *

Locus was rather uncomfortable with this situation, even if he knew Felix would probably be giggling if their roles were reversed.

Sharkface wasn’t pushing. He was just waiting, still locking down Felix’s limbs. He didn’t have to say anything more, because it was evident that Felix was realising how trapped he was even through the drugged, injured haze. He was chalk-white in the face, teeth gritted, and shifting sluggishly in a way that resembled thrashing but in slow-motion, like his limbs were weighed down with metal. It was taking time to process, but it was happening.

“Y’don’t… have… the guts,” Felix hissed.

“Well, if you insist on proof...” 

Sharkface shifted forward, letting Felix’s legs free. However, he lodged one of his own legs square into Felix’s stomach, using the other to pin down the left arm. Sharkface let go of Felix, ignoring Felix smacking at him after a few seconds delay, instead rummaging through his pant pockets. What he pulled out was a wiry piece of metal, folded over with cloth wrapped around the end to form a handle. Too small to be a shiv too rounded at the end. Then Sharkface also pulled out a lighter, flicking it open and holding the wire over it.

“Still time to tell me what I want to know,” Sharkface said. “You’ve got until this wire starts glowing.”

“Fghh,” Felix grunted, trying to smack it out of Sharkface’s hands. Sharkface pulled it away before looking over at Locus.

“If you’re going to stick around, a little help would be nice,” Sharkface said, nodding his head towards Felix.

Locus didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward before slamming his foot down on Felix’s free arm, pressing down hard enough to dig in, to leave red marks and start to cut off the circulation, but not hard enough to break the bones underneath.

“Y’so fuckin’ dead,” Felix growled, glaring at Locus. “Piece of shit traitor…”

Locus said nothing.

“Tick tock,” Sharkface said.

“Fughh… fuck off… y’think you’re big? You think I’m alone? I got… I got more people than y’can even fuckin’ guess.”

“I don’t like guessing games. Give me something better than that.”

“I got… so fuckin’ many,” Felix repeated. “So… so… fuck, I’m… I’m gonna puke.”

Sharkface sighed, sounding more disappointed than anything.

“Great. Well, time’s up. Move your foot, cricket.”

Locus scowled a little at the nickname, but lifted his foot. Sharkface grabbed the free hand, still with the red imprint of Locus’ shoe near the wrist, sliding his fingers in between Felix’s and forcing him into a handhold before pushing the arm down so the inside of the wrist was bared. Sharkface held the hot wire millimeters from the skin, close enough that Felix could feel the heat radiating from it.

“Hope you like the smell of fried fish.”

There was only a moment to wonder what that even meant before Sharkface pressed the wire down. At the same time Locus, on instinct, slammed his hand over Felix’s mouth to muffle the shriek. Sharkface didn’t say anything, but his eyes flickered to Locus for a second and his smirk got a little wider.

Locus didn’t generally like to watch torture. Never had. It was just... unprofessional. This entire set-up was unprofessional. But he watched anyway. Watched the skin underneath the wire blister and burn as Sharkface branded him. Felix’s kicks became frantic, although the muffled shriek quickly tailed off into violent coughs. Locus watched, and tried to quiet the part of him that enjoyed Felix being put in his place for once.

“Stop squirming. You’re a tattoo artist, don’t you know anything?” Sharkface muttered, as he slid the metal along the skin in a deliberate path.

Felix’s coughs were taking on a wheezy quality. The kicks abruptly stilled and he stopped trying to wriggle out of Sharkface’s grip. Like a mouse playing dead while pinned by a cat.

“Shit,” Sharkface muttered, as the wire soon stopped leaving burns as strong. “And I was so close. Guess there’s some extra time on the clock. Want to reconsider now? You better, or you’re not gonna like where this goes next.”

There were no words from Felix. He wasn’t even focused on Sharkface. He was still glaring at Locus, even with glazed-over, watery eyes.

Then there was a snarl from the cell entrance, followed by an energetic yell.

“Cell check!”

Locus turned and had to jump back as a mass of fur and teeth leapt into the room, growling. Freckles turned to him, ears flat and tail raised, while Caboose held his leash a little loosely for comfort and stared Locus down. Sharkface immediately let go of Felix as well, shifting into a sitting position but not climbing off him. Felix pulled his arm towards himself, cradling it and looking utterly disorientated.

“Cell check, cell check!” Caboose bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“What the hell?” Sharkface said after a moment of bemused silence.

“You have no authority to do a cell check,” Locus said, stepping back further. As he did so, he quickly secured the garrotte back into his sleeve.

“Actually, we totally have authority. It’s part of a new program to teach us responsibility.” Donut stepped out from behind Caboose. His eyes flickered to Felix for a second and he let out a barely imperceptible breath, before looking back at Sharkface. “And we’re here to stop travel to the technicolor dreamscape. Talking about drugs, Fishface. Drugs.”

“There’s no drugs here,” Sharkface said impatiently.

“Yeah? Then what do you call this?” Donut waved his hands wildly at Felix. “Look at him! He’s fallen off the wagon and shaken hands with the devil!”

“Fuck you, I’m teetotal as fuck,” Felix groaned, raising his arms and seemingly trying to bat away the noise.

“Caboose, can you get Freckles to sniff him over?” Donut asked. At the same time jerking his head towards Felix and raising his eyebrows. Caboose nodded seriously.

“Yes. I am the dog whisperer. Freckles must do his job so that he can feel important,” he insisted. “Freckles! Sniff!”

Freckles immediately pounced forward, forcing Sharkface to either roll entirely off Felix or get hit in the chest with eighty pounds of dog. Freckles sniffed at Felix, burying his nose in the man’s jumpsuit, to which Felix to by rolling into a ball and trying to keep his burned arm away from the animal.

“Sit,” Caboose said, in a hushed tone that was clearly supposed to be secretive but was just as loud as his normal speech. Freckles immediately sat down. “Sitting is the drug sign!”

“Sure is, sure is!” Donut strode over to the bunk, grabbing Felix under the arms and starting to pull him across the floor, away from Sharkface. “We’re gonna have to cart this druggie loser off for questioning! And you both should be ashamed for enabling him!”

“Hey, wait a fucking second--” Sharkface said, stepping forward, but Freckles immediately started growling again, baring sharp teeth. Sharkface looked at the dog, frowning, but didn’t make any further movement.

“Suuuure,” Donut said sarcastically. He gave both Locus and Sharkface a disgusted, almost challenging stare. Most of the disgust seemed focused on Sharkface, who looked back with scrunched up eyebrows. “Let’s go, Caboose.”

“Come on, Freckles! We’re going to help you do your job so good!” Caboose said cheerfully.

Both Locus and Sharkface were left behind in a silence that quickly became awkward.

“...Huh,” Sharkface finally said. He turned away, pulling out Felix’s shiv and examining it. “Hm… don’t think he’ll be so susceptible to drugs in the future. Damn.”

“That was unnecessary,” Locus said quietly, fixing Sharkface with a stern stare.

“Which part?”

“The branding? The rape threats? I can understand the branding as a reminder, but professionals don’t make rape threats.”

“Why not?” Sharkface said dispassionately. “Not like I actually did it. He’s not my type and that’s not my thing.”

“Even so.”

“It’s about making him feel--know--that there ain’t shit-all he can do. About helplessness. That’ll turn out one of two things. Best case scenario: he falls in line to stop anything happening to him. The other scenario is he pushes back. Which is honestly a lot more fun for me.”

“You sound like him,” Locus muttered.

Sharkface rolled his eyes. “Right. And you’re as pure as the driven snow. Did working with O’Malley just not count? Did you get to wash your hands of your partnership with Felix because you shot him once? Is that professional?” Sharkface slipped the shiv into his pocket. “Are you mad that I’m being an amateur over it, or are you just a hypocrite?”

Without waiting for an answer he walked out. Leaving Locus annoyed and, as usual, mostly blaming Felix for it. Sharkface wasn’t wrong. Felix would take this all very personally. Now this was going to be a much bloodier mission than it needed to be.

 

* * *

“‘M not a druggie!” Felix complained, as he was dragged along the floor by Donut. “I ain’t goin’ to the shoe…”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry,” Donut said. He looked up at Caboose, who was trotting along behind them with Freckles. “Good job, Caboose.”

“I did not do much. Freckles did the hard things,” Caboose said, giving Freckles a scratch behind the ear.

“You did very good. Who’s a good boy?” Donut asked Freckles. Freckles gave him a slightly patronizing look and wagged his tail in an aloof manner, as if to say ‘well, obviously it’s me.’ “Exactly.”

When they were a decent distance from the cell and it became clear that neither Sharkface or Locus had followed them, Donut let go of Felix’s arms, letting him lie on the floor. Felix blinked at the ceiling. Pale and with glassy eyes that had left watery streaks down his face, he looked a mess.

After several long moments Felix finally said, “‘M fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Donut said. “Come on, I’m gonna take you to Sheila.”

“I’m… fine,” Felix repeated. He tried to wave Donut away, and let out a strangled hiss as he did so, grabbing the arm with his other hand. 

Donut got a good look at what Sharkface had done to his wrist. A simple fish shape had been burned deep into the skin, almost complete except for a gap near the tail.

Jesus.

“Felix. Felix, listen to me, okay?” Donut knelt next to him, hand hovering but not moving forward. He felt like he was talking to a skittish deer. “You aren't fine. You're drugged and you're injured. You need Sheila.”

“Sheila is a nice lady who will make all the things better,” Caboose said.

“No,” Felix croaked, trying to sit up. He managed to get halfway up before breaking out into another series of coughs.

“See, I don't know why you're coughing. That could be a symptom of… I dunno, bad stuff,” Donut said frantically.

“Can't. They'll… the shoe. They'll put me… he’s got buddies and you know what happens in there.” Felix trailed off and curled up a little tighter. 

“They can’t put you in the shoe--” Donut started.

“They’ll… if it’s not ‘you’re druggin’ up’ it’ll be ‘protective custody.’ Either way… and if I… if that happens?” Felix let out a shaky breath before reaching out and gripping Donut’s shoulders. “You’d be killing me.”

Donut wrinkled his nose a little, staring back at Felix. Then he sighed and lowered his voice.

“Then what do I do?”

“Jus’... lemme handle shit.”

“Absolutely not,” Donut said firmly. “You’re basically drunk.”

Felix glared at Donut. Then he wobbled again, nearly pulling Donut down with him, before blinking a little and rubbing his face.

“I gotta… need to hide. ‘M too fucked up.”

Donut nodded before offering Felix a hand. “Alright. I’ll get you there. Climb aboard.” Felix didn’t extend his own hand, perhaps too dazed to notice, but Donut managed to pull him to his feet before hauling Felix into a piggyback ride. Thankfully, Felix was very light. “Caboose… can you go ahead and make sure there’s no guards or any of Sharkface’s buddies? Like our spy games? We gotta get this guy to the fort.”

Caboose did not jump to the task happily like he usually did at the possibility of ‘spy stuff.’ He peered at Felix, head tilted and a thoughtful frown on his face, before looking at Donut.

“...Are you sure, Bougatsa?”

Donut nodded. Caboose squinted slightly for a moment before fixing his smile back onto his face.

“Come on, Freckles!” he cooed. “We have another important job to do. Spy stuff!” He lowered his voice. “Can you be very quiet? Yes, yes you can.” 

Caboose hurried ahead with Freckles, moving to the nearest corner. He peered around it, gave Donut a thumbs up and moved out of sight. Donut started to follow, carrying Felix along with him.

“You owe me a lot of Snickers for this,” Donut said.

“‘Kay.” Felix wrapped an arm around Donut’s neck, clinging on a little tightly, and pressed the side of his face into Donut’s back. “...Donut?”

“Yeah?”

A pause before: “...I’m gonna throw up.”

“Aw, man.”

 

* * *

Later, not long before dinner, C.T listened as Sharkface filled him in on what had occured. His first question was, perhaps, not what it should have been.

“...’Hope you like the smell of fried fish?’” C.T said slowly.

“I forgot my original line,” Sharkface grumbled.

C.T snorted as he shifted a bag of unspecified vegetables for the next day’s stew. “Good job. Help me move this stuff, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sharkface was not normally allowed anywhere near the kitchen area. However, Girlie was on guard duty as they moved the food inside for the next day. She stood nearby, watching them move bags of food. Sharkface picked up a box of meat like it weighed nothing and followed along as moved through the prison.

“So, how much of what he said seems right to you?” C.T asked.

“Do you trust my instincts?” Sharkface asked grimly.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you to interrogate him. Give me your read on him.”

“I don’t think Cricket was lying,” Sharkface said shortly. “Kind of a scorned lover vibe going on with those two. Asshole was fixated on him. More importantly, I think Felix jumped to the ‘murder you and Locus’ proposal far too quickly to have not thought about it, at least. If he knows your name… there’s probably a reason he was told and I doubt that reason is good.”

“My thoughts exactly,” C.T said grimly. “I’m just wondering why Flowers or someone else hasn’t come after me yet, if that’s the case.”

“Maybe because we’d tear the place apart if he did anything to you,” Sharkface said lightly. “I would, at least.”

C.T grinned a little. “Don’t I know it.” His grin faded back into a thoughtful frown. “What about this part about him having people?”

“That part could be bullshit. Or it could be truth. But if they’re planning something to do with you? Oh, they’d absolutely have extras on hand. We know they got Flowers. We know Wash used to work with them. Bet that’s not all.”

“...I’ll ask Connie to look into the backgrounds of any employees. Look for any tip-offs,” C.T mused. “She wants you to call her more, by the way.”

“Ugh, I’m not ten anymore. I don’t need to call every day,” Sharkface grumbled. "So. What's next?"  


C.T entered the kitchen and dropped the bag of vegetables on the counter. "What's next... you know, I'm not sure. I'm just playing this by ear. ...I think maybe I need to talk to my old buddy. See if he can confirm any of this."

"Yeah? Can't drug Flowers' food," Sharkface grunted, putting down the box of meat.

"Maybe not... but I'm sure there's a way."

 

* * *

Donut sat in the corner of the cell, having swiped one of the blankets from the fort to stay warm in, and kept busy through reading. He had a few books from the library piled in his cell at all times, mostly a mix of romance novels, craft-related books and what little Dostoevsky he could track down in the library. But he’d read them all before. The library didn’t often get new books.

As he flicked through ‘Notes from the Underground,’ he heard movement within the blanket fort. Then there was silence, followed by a whispered ‘what the fuck?’

“Are you awake?” Donut asked.

The blankets dangling over the top bunk were shoved aside. Felix stared out of the blanket fort, looking like he was preparing for a fight. He looked like shit. Rumpled and dishevelled, and still looking unsteady, he stared around the cell before his eyes landed on Donut.

“...What. The fuck. Happened?” he asked. Voice tired, slightly slurred but nowhere near the extent that it had been earlier.

“You got drugged at lunch and then Sharkface and Locus cornered you and started asking you questions. Sharkface burned your wrist and threatened to make you ‘experience inches’ or something. Me and Caboose got you out of there, but you wouldn’t go to Sheila because you thought you’d die in the shoe so I brought you back to the fort. Also you threw up, like, twice.” Donut bookmarked his place and put the book aside. “You don’t remember?”

“It’s… it’s fuzzy,” Felix groaned, rubbing his head. “Jesus christ. Is this a hangover?”

“Probably.”

“I hate it.” Felix looked over at Donut, squinting a little. “So… how much did you hear?”

“Some… weird shit that I didn’t really understand,” Donut admitted. “About contacts, who you work for… something about Hargrove’s business. Did they mean, like… the one who owns the prison?”

Felix didn’t respond, instead just leaning forward and rubbing circles into his forehead in an attempt to massage the headache away. Donut watched him for a few moments, before shifting over to rifle through his footlocker.

After a few moments, he retrieved a juicebox and a small packet of pretzels, moving over to sit next to Felix before dropping the items in his lap.

“Here. It might not quite be a hangover, but juice and pretzels help Grif when he drinks too much. I always keep a little bit on hand just in case.”

“They don’t sell these in the commissary,” Felix said, looking at the pretzels.

“Well, yeah. Church can get most any food.”

Felix rubbed his forehead for a little longer before saying, “You think he’d cut me a deal on selling me shit in bulk? Can’t eat from the cafeteria anymore, and the commissary… that’s expensive as fuck.”

“I’ll ask. Maybe he’ll cut you a deal. Church is an asshole but like… he’s alright as far as assholes go. But you really should see Sheila.” Donut fixed Felix with a worried look. “Or get a cell transfer. Get away from Locus.”

“Nah, the enemy I know is better than the enemy I don’t. I’ll just keep my guard up.”

“All night?” Donut said doubtfully.

“What, you don’t? Anyway, I sleep light. I’m always on guard.” Felix raised his hands in a kung-fu gesture before wincing, looking at his burned wrist. The burns cut across the tattooed skin. “...Fuck, Fish Food ruined my snapdragons.” He frowned before getting to his feet. He wavered a little, but after holding his hands out for a moment he seemed to steady. “I need to check what food I’ve got left in my footlocker. See if I got enough to last me.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“And let Locus and that fish asshole think they got to me? Fuck no,” Felix said, heading out of the cell. Donut sat there for a moment, thinking, before getting to his feet and hurrying after him.

“Hold up,” he called out. Felix stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on… but you don’t have to do it alone. Really, against guys that big? Doing it alone might be a death sentence.”

Felix crossed his arms, looking down. His head turned a little, though not enough for Donut to properly catch his expression.

“...Trust me, you don’t want to get involved,” he finally said. Another pause. From this view, Donut caught a glimpse of him going red in the face. “...Thanks, though.”

Then he left, wobbling his way down the corridor. Donut sighed and returned to his cell. Some people could be so stubborn about accepting help. He’d just have to ask again tomorrow.


	15. Chapter Twelve: Fame and Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebrity arrives in prison, and is soon confronted by the past. Tucker and Kimball discuss his chances at his upcoming parole hearing. Grif receives some disappointing news. Sharkface floats the idea of smuggling to Stassney. A few days later, Donut and Felix discuss the idea of payment, Grif turns to old methods to cope with the disappointing news, and Flowers runs one of his men through a test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the warning tags due to some references in this chapter. Also haven't done so yet but will likely add Flowers and Sharkface as tagged characters in the future. 
> 
> Apologies for the delay. Writing is hard.

“Donut, that’s a lot of fucking food,” Church said.

“I know, but like… people drugging his food, what else is he supposed to do?” Donut asked.

It was breakfast time the morning after. Donut was prodding at his food with a frown as he spoke to Church, wondering if perhaps Sharkface’s friends would drug his or Caboose’s food as well in retaliation for them rescuing Felix. Caboose seemed less concerned with this, having started his meal before Donut even had a chance to say anything. He seemed fine, so that probably meant it was okay, but Donut couldn’t help but worry.

“I’m not a charity,” Church said, in between bites of cereal.

“Compared to commissary prices, you may as well be. He can’t live off over-priced ramen and Snickers forever.”

“Man, I could really go for some of that, though,” Grif said, as he went around the table collecting everyone’s fruit. When his hand neared Donut’s fruit, Donut lightly smacked his hand away. “Boo.”

“I’m not enabling you.” Donut then turned back to Church. “A little charity won’t kill you.”

“You sure about that? I give one guy free stuff, everyone’ll want free stuff,” Church said. “And I don’t want to be telling a bunch of already jittery inmates what they can and can’t have.”

Next to Church, meanwhile, Tucker was poking at his food and scowling.

“Great. He’s a psycho,” Tucker muttered under his breath. “So much for ‘oh, it might be a bluff.’ Should have figured any kid raised by fuckin’ Pillman would end up a psycho.”

“What’s your fuss with helping Felix, anyway? He’s kind of a dick,” Church said.

“Yeah, but… fuck, Church, you know I don’t like people getting their creepy touch on,” Donut said. “I swear, we finally get rid of the creepiest rapist in this prison--still haven’t had that distasteful celebration, by the way--and immediately Sharkface gets his creep on. Like he’s possessed by O’Malley’s ghost.”

As Donut said this, a familiar figure caught his eye. Donut leaned back to look over Caboose’s shoulder and saw a lean man with somewhat long hair slicked back, staring around the cafeteria as he held his tray. Clearly new. It took Donut a moment for it to click on where he’d seen this man before, because it hadn’t been in person.

“Oh shit, that’s Gabriel Lozano,” Donut said, prior conversation entirely forgotten. Immediately, he stood up and started flailing his arm around. “Hey. Hey! Gabriel Lozano! I love your work!”

“...Dye-Job, what the fuck are you talking about?” Church asked, staring at him like he was insane as Donut tried to wave Lozano down.

“Don’t you watch television? Read the newspapers? Have you never even been to the nightclub scene? That’s Gabriel Lozano. He was on the fifth, sixth and ninth seasons of Bombshell Beach? He came in second on the sixth one. Owns a club called Amnesia? Their family are all over the tabloids?” Donut looked at Church, then around the table, and received multiple blank stares. “You uncultured swines.”

“ _ I do remember that show. It was the highest amount of trash I’d ever seen condensed into half an hour, _ ” Lopez muttered as he picked at his food. Dos had declined to sit with them today, muttering under his breath and not having a word of it understood. “ _ And the later seasons were even worse in quality. _ ”

“Oh, yeah, I watched like three episodes of Bombshell Beach when the remote was too far away for me to change it,” Grif said, also looking over at Lozano. “Not exactly the pinnacle of culture, dude. So he’s some two-bit quasi celebrity, big deal.”

“Amnesia had such pretty lights, though. And the line was huge!” Donut enthused. “I went there once the year before I got arrested. Had to borrow someone’s ID to do it, but--”

Tucker let out a mock gasp.

“Yeah, I know, right?” Donut continued obliviously. “Really nice dance floor once you got in there. Couldn’t get in the VIP section, though. I heard that was only for the crazy wealthy. Lozano. Lozano!”

Lozano’s attention turned towards him. For a moment, he stared at the buff, tattooed inmate that was waving his arm and bellowing at him. Then he quickly turned around, speeding in the other direction.

“Aw man,” Donut huffed, sitting back down again.

“It is okay, Jalebi,” Caboose said, patting him on the back. “He does not deserve to be in the buddy club.”

“Thanks, Caboose.” Donut gave him a smile that still contained a hint of disappointment before he turned back to Church. “Anyway. Please?”

Church rolled his eyes. “I’ll think of something that benefits us both, but no charity.”

“I’ll wash your clothing for free,” Donut offered.

“Not worth that much. I’m not as filthy as Grif.”

“I want to be offended, but… yeah, that’s fair,” Grif said through a mouthful of food.

 

* * *

Felix hadn’t slept well.

He was going to chalk that shit up to the sting of burned flesh on the inside of his wrist. It certainly wasn’t because of nightmarish dreams that he couldn’t quite remember, but which carried the distinct feeling of being trapped, unable to breathe and unable to escape. He wasn’t some wuss that was bothered by imaginary horrors.

He’d sat up multiple times in the night, usually drifting off to sleep quickly again. He’d kept his eyes on Locus’ bunk when he’d been awake, peering over the edge of his bunk, but hadn’t seen much movement. That didn’t mean Locus was asleep. Felix had thought a couple of times about going down there and wrapping his hands around Locus’ throat, but that was hardly unusual. 

This time, he woke up after or during breakfast, having apparently slept through it. He knew that immediately, because someone had placed a bread roll and a piece of fruit wrapped inside it by his pillow. Felix knew only one person could have gotten that close without waking him up. There was a note inside the package, and Felix also recognised Locus’ handwriting, for all that it wasn’t signed.

Felix picked up the bread roll and orange, peeled the orange and tossed the bits of peel on Locus’ bunk, making sure to get as many bits tangled in the sheets as possible, before crumbling the bread roll and doing the same. He then climbed back onto the top bunk and looked at the note, eating segments of the orange as he did so.

It only had four words on it. 

 

_ Gabriel Lozano is here. _

 

That… complicated things. Just what he needed, another guy mad at him in this stupid concrete box. Apprehension swept through his stomach, but it quickly calmed. When he’d last encountered Lozano, he’d been younger. Hadn’t learned yet. And even then, it had taken multiple henchmen to even slow him down. In here it wouldn’t be a problem. Unless Lozano had henchmen here, too. That was a possibility… Meanwhile, Felix had no-one except Locus, and Locus was a backstabbing asshole that he hadn’t trusted in years.

Felix remained on his bed for a bit, considering the situation. He finished the orange, dumping a few seeds from within it on Locus’ bunk as well, before sliding off the top bunk and heading into the corridor.

He almost immediately bumped into Donut, who was holding half a bread roll and juice box.

“Oh good, Locus didn’t murder you in your sleep,” Donut said cheerfully. He held out the bread and juice. “I got you food. The juice is sealed and I ate half the roll so you know it’s not drugged.”

Felix considered the food warily before taking it. It wouldn’t make sense for Donut to poison or drug him now. “Thanks. You talk to Church?”

“He said you’d have to barter with him yourself.” Donut trailed after Felix as they walked down the corridor, talking at a mile a minute. “So, are you fine? How’s your burn? Can you see Sheila now? Locus didn’t ambush you at all? Is he a creeper like Sharkface is? Do you want me to help you talk to the guards about switching cells?”

“Yes. Fine. No. Not last night. Locus is creepy but his sex drive is on-and-off robotic, so 50/50. And no,” Felix responded once Donut ran out of breath. “Hey, there’s a reason that those cowards drugged my food. It’s because I’m kickass otherwise.”

“But you’re super skinny and they’re really big,” Donut said doubtfully.

“Lean muscle, Sprinkles. And it’s all about how you fight. You have to use their weight against them. Want to throw some punches at me?”

“Not really?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Oh hey, speaking of lean dudes, we got a celebrity in the prison now. Please tell me you’ve watched some television so that--”

“Lozano, right?”

“Oh thank god, someone knows. I told the crew at breakfast and they looked at me like I’d grown a second head,” Donut said, sighing with relief. “I mean, how does one not know Gabriel Lozano? He’s in so many tabloids. Like, all of them. Every gossip magazine. Even when I was on the outside!”

“Oh yeah, lots of embarrassing things. It’s hilarious,” Felix said, while his mind still ticked on how the hell he was going to deal with this. Hopefully Lozano didn’t bring too many of his henchmen in with him. “I liked season five of that beach show. Season six was kinda shit.”

“Aw, but that one had the love triangle. Gotta love that drama,” Donut enthused. “It’s so weird that he’s suddenly in prison, right? Like, a full-on celebrity. I didn’t hear that he was having legal trouble! I wonder what he’s in for.”

“The Lozanos have a strong grip on the media and Gabriel’s dad is pretty damn powerful,” Felix said absently. “He probably didn’t want more embarrassments regarding his family or--”

Felix tailed off. An idea clicked. Felix paused, then grinned to himself.

“What are you smiling about?” Donut asked curiously.

“Oh, I was thinking maybe if I spoke to him I could get a spot on Bombshell Beach myself. He has to know the producers, right?” Felix looked down at himself and said, “Tell me I’m not a bombshell.”

“...You need a blonde wig,” Donut said thoughtfully, as he gave it serious consideration. "And probably some fake boobs, because I think that's what the bomb in bombshell means."  


“But then it'd be bombshells. Plural.”

Forget simply dealing with Lozano. He could turn the man’s presence into an advantage. No need to worry about it. Now he just had to figure out how to deal with Sharkface. And Pillman. And Pillman’s crew. Oh, and Locus, obviously. Jesus, forget Lozano, those guys were all going to be bigger problems than some asshole he’d annoyed at thirteen.

Against a whole crew, he was going to need something between him and them.

“Did you at least disinfect the burns or something?” Donut asked. Without bothering with permission, he grasped Felix’s arm and pulled it up to have a closer look at the fish burned into Felix’s wrist.

“Yes, I washed it. I’m not stupid. I tattoo people for a living, I know what an infection does,” Felix said. As he spoke, he watched Donut closely.

...Hmm. That could work.  


“So. Want to hang out later? I should be able to figure out a way to thank you by then,” Felix said, grinning at him.

“Snickers?”

“Why not?”

 

* * *

Tucker hadn’t told Church about Sharkface threatening him. Not only would it make Church flip out, but he’d probably forget about it soon after. The last thing he needed was Church retaliating against Sharkface or Pillman or one of their crew, then promptly forgetting about it and getting caught off-guard when they came looking for revenge.

So as far as Church knew, Tucker dragging him around as a set of eyes was done mostly for the reason of ‘annoyance.’ Tucker was cool with that.

“You need me to write on your hand when I’ll be done with Kimball?” Tucker asked.

“It’s fine,” Church grumbled. “I don’t forget the obvious shit that quickly.”

“How would you know, though?”

“Ugh, don’t think I haven’t wondered. Let me have this, man,” Church grumbled as they walked towards Kimball’s office. Or rather the office she shared with Doyle, but she could usually manage to kick Doyle out when she needed to. “So… why am I really following you?”

“No reason. Just wanted to bug you.”

“Then why are we being followed?”

Tucker came to an immediate halt. “...Are we?” He hadn’t heard it, but it was harder to tell when he was already walking with someone. As he came to a halt, he caught just the faintest tail-end of a distant set of footsteps coming to a halt. “Fuck. Fuuuck.”

“Yeah. You piss off the guards or something?”

“...The guards?”

“Yeah. That guard is following us around like he expects us to do something.”

Tucker breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh.”

“You thought it was someone else? That Pillman guy bothering you or something?”

“Nah,” Tucker said, in a moment of technical truth. “It’s fine.”

Church raised his voice and yelled behind them. “Hey! Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” After a pause, he muttered, “Yeah, that’s right. Look away, asshole. Shit, hope they’re not planning on cutting off my business.”

“And get in Tex’s way? It’ll never happen. When she retires, maybe.”

They stopped in front of Kimball’s office. Tucker grinned, before reaching out and patting Church’s face.

“Won’t be long. Try not to cry without me.”

“Ugh,” was Church’s only response. Even so, Tucker felt fingers touch his face before Church left. 

Tucker knocked on the office door and waited. It only took a moment for the door to squeak open and Kimball’s voice to be heard.

“Tucker, come in.” 

As Tucker entered, he heard the door shut behind him and this time only let out a sigh of relief internally. Safe now. Wandering around the prison felt too chancy, and the guards weren’t a comfort. Especially after the O’Malley incident. But Kimball had been pretty straight with him so far.

“Have a seat. Sorry for the mess.”

“It’s cool. I can’t see it, the place could be gleaming,” Tucker said, as he sat down and rested his hands on the desk. As he did so, he immediately almost knocked a stack of books off the desk. “Shit, I get what you mean. Still cool.”

“So, Tucker. Less than two months until your parole hearing. I wanted to discuss the details with you, as well as what you plan to do if you get paroled,” Kimball said, sitting down across from him.

Tucker nodded a little. “You think I’ve got a chance?”

“Well, looking at what you’ve got in your favor… you’ve served your time pretty quietly. You’ve been using our education programs by learning Sangheili, which shows a willingness to learn and reform. And… well, you’ve clearly suffered within prison. I don’t want to say what happened to your eyes and lungs is lucky… but it may get some pity points, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Hey, if pity gets me freedom I’m all for it,” Tucker said, grinning and leaning back on his chair. “I got any negatives?”

“Apart from your initial crimes… and perhaps if they’ve gotten wind of any smuggling rumors.” There was a creak from Kimball’s chair as she shifted, leaning forward. “Don’t think I don’t know those rumors, Tucker. You’ve been operating for a decade and I talk with the inmates a lot. Loose lips sink ships.”

“Gonna rat me out, Kimball?” Tucker asked, although his tone remained amiable. He already knew the answer.

“No. If you and Church were dealing in weapons and drugs I would, but the one thing I hear consistently is that you don’t. If you were responsible for the drug flow, that’d be a different matter. Anyway, that’s neither here or there.”

“It’s a little here. I just don’t want to go down to the shoe. Not after… y’know,” Tucker said.

“Yeah. That’s understandable. That… that situation is just…” Kimball paused, before muttering, “It’s fucked. I don’t have any other word for it.”

“Right? I gotta be honest, Kimball, I’m not feeling all that safe right now. Like I won’t make it to parole if I step out of line, you know?” Tucker tried to inject just the right level of nerves into his voice. Trying to sound like he was covering fear while still making that fear obvious… that was a fucking balancing act. “And they’re not even investigating--”

“They are investigating,” Kimball corrected him. “Staff has been questioned. But no hard evidence.”

“None at all?” Tucker threw caution to the wind. “No wills or last testaments left behind saying he anticipated being killed? You’re the social worker, couldn’t we hand wills to you?”

“I didn’t really deal much with him. Doc preferred to oversee him.” Kimball shifted again. Tucker could hear her scowling. “They’ll get whoever killed him. I’m sure. Niner won’t let this be swept under the rug. She’s reasonable, if nothing else.”

“You know, you don’t have to pretend you care. O’Malley was a scumbag,” Tucker said.

“I don’t know what he was or wasn’t. I just know that we have a duty in this prison, and whoever murdered him broke it and set a precedent that I’d hate to see repeated. And you--” Tucker assumed, by the brief pause and the noise of movement, that Kimball was gesturing at him. “--are distracting me from your reason for being here.”

“My bad,” Tucker said, grinning. He’d been skeptical about the idea of Kimball hiding a will beforehand, but he was certain now that it wasn’t her. She was too outspoken about duty and justice. Good thing, too. This office would have been hell to search.

There was the shuffling of papers and the creak of Kimball leaning forward again. “I’ll talk in more detail about the hearing, about what to expect… but first I wanted to know what your plans are when you leave.”

“Hang out with my kid, obviously,” Tucker said.

“Obviously. And I’m happy that’s on your list, but… what is your plan? Will you be living with your son?”

“Nah, he’s got college. He’s rooming with a couple of other Sangheili dudes. Can’t have his dad taking up the fourth bunk.”

“Do you have anywhere else to stay or will you need something set up for you?”

Tucker hadn’t actually considered this. He frowned as he thought about it, fiddling with a pen that his fingers had sought out on the table.

“I… dunno. I guess I would need something set up. Doubt Crunchbite would be happy with me crashing on his sofa.”

There was the scratching of a pen on paper for a moment before Kimball continued.

“Secondly, I wanted to discuss if you had any preference in jobs. Anything you know you can do. I’ve looked at your job history. How much of that was… legitimate jobs?”

“If we’re being honest here, Kimball? I’ve never had a job-job in my life.”

“Right… and physical work isn’t likely, given your lungs and your sight. Being outside the prison blind for the first time will take adjustment.” There was some flipping of pages. “I’ve been looking into it for you. I think I’ve got some ideas. Wanted to run them by you, and then I can look into setting up a job opportunity so you’ll be ready when you leave.”

This had also not been something that he’d considered. Actually, now that Tucker thought about it, he hadn’t considered much about his potential freedom. He’d considered Junior. Considered the occasional luxury that wasn’t available on the inside. But he hadn’t considered his overall plan. It had always seemed so distant an idea.

Suddenly, his chest felt very tight.

“Tucker?” Kimball asked.

“Yeah. Uh, yeah, I’ll listen to some ideas.” Tucker fixed a grin onto his face, shoved that tight feeling down and picked up the pen he’d been fiddling with in order to play with it in a more casual ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ manner. “You got anything talky? I’m good at talky.”

 

* * *

Lozano wasn’t happy.

He’d always assumed his father’s influence would get him out of anything, and he was still wondering whether this prison sentence was a true failure or whether his dad was trying to teach him a lesson about being so obvious. It wouldn’t be too bad. He knew his dad was friends with the owner, that said owner had people who could get him some luxury items and keep him out of harm’s way.

But even so, the beds were scratchy. The showers too cold. The food was terrible. And there were big, tattooed men already trying to wave him down. Not only that, but the guards expected him to work. Work! Like some common janitor.

He was sure he could get out of that just fine. But his attempt to remind the guard of who he was had only gotten a blank stare in response. Well, they’d see.

Now he was pacing the yard--in itself barely qualifying as a yard--trying to spot someone who might have worked for him or his father in the past. Someone who’d fall into place and help him out here.

He was squinting at an inmate, trying to see if they were one of his old guards before remembering that said guard had died on the job, when someone wrapped an arm around his own and started to pull him away from the crowds.

“Lozano. Buddy. Good to see you,” the inmate said, grinning at him. A wiry, rat-faced man. Something tickled in the back of Lozano’s mind, but he wasn’t placing the man’s face just yet.

“...You worked for me, did you?”

“If you have to ask, clearly I didn’t leave a big enough impression on you.” The man pouted as he steered Lozano along. It was an awkward walk, as Lozano was taller than him.

They rounded a corner and came to a small square of dirt, even less cared for than the rest of the prison. Someone had left a basketball on the ground, but otherwise the place was undecorated. It was also unguarded.

“...Seriously, who the fuck are you?” 

“We work together for years and you forget about me? After only twelve years? I’m… I’m hurt. Truly.”

“Lots of people work for me. I’m fucking important!” Lozano snapped. “I can’t be expected to remember all of you. What were you, a bartender? A bagman?”

The man let go of him, taking a step back and turning towards him.

“Junior. Look at me. Really look.” He gestured at his face. “If it helps, imagine a messier haircut and a baggier jacket. Subtract twelve to fifteen years.” He grinned. A wide, shit-eating grin. “Maybe you even still have the tapes.”

The grin and the tapes. That tripped the memory. And along with it, a tidalwave of rage. Lozano’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he stepped forward.

“You son of a bitch, Isaac!”

“There it is!” Isaac said gleefully, clapping his hands. He winced immediately after, examining one of his wrists as he did so, but the grin reappeared quickly. “I was starting to worry about my own memorability.” He laughed and added, “That’s a lie. Everyone remembers me. But, uh, if you could not call me Isaac that’d be very appreciated. It’s Felix now.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Lozano snapped. “You made an embarrassment out of me, and the only reason you got away with it is because you hid behind the Chairman’s skirts like a child--”

“And you’d know all about hiding behind people better than you, wouldn’t you? How’s your father doing? But you know what? That’s neither here or there. I have a favor to ask of you, Little L.”

“Fuck off, Is--” Before Lozano could finish, Isaac grabbed him by the shoulder and clasped his other hand in front of his mouth, briefly muffling him. His hands were stronger. Much stronger than they’d been twelve years ago.

“Don’t. Call. Me. Isaac,” Felix said coldly. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall. You’re lucky I don’t get as weird about it as Sammy does. Now shh.” Isaac--Felix--let go of Lozano again but wrapped his arm around Lozano’s shoulder instead. “Hey, I’m gonna ask for something very reasonable here.”

“It isn’t reasonable! I don’t deal with you any more! You broke our last deal, and you know… I don’t buy that my girl getting stabbed had nothing to do with you!” Lozano crossed his arms, the expression on his face mirroring the petulant sulkiness of a child who just had a toy taken away. “She was one of my favourites, y’know!”

“Blonde? Liked to wear yellow? Oh, yeah. Maybe I remember her. Shame,” Felix said cheerfully. He started to pace slowly around Lozano. “The papers say anything about your paramour after her tragic passing? I looked--out of chance, of course--and I didn’t see anything apart from a few pictures of her on your arm. This despite the fact that I know, personally, that she was into some shit. 

“Then again, they consider you nothing but a reality television celebrity. And to end up in here… I asked a ‘friend’ amongst the guard what they caught you on. Murder? Drug trafficking? Money laundering? Rape? And that’s just what they caught you on! I mean, what the fuck were you doing, humping corpses in a pile of drugs and stolen money when the cops burst in? And yet.” Felix eyed him, tilting his head. “Not a whisper on television. Not a footnote in the newspaper. Nothing. Considering your fame, that’s amazing.”

“My father knows how to make publicity go away, and he’ll know how to get me out of here. Just you wait,” Lozano bragged. “That’s why I’m here, because he made deals with the right people. People who will fuck you up if I ask them to.”

“Mmhm.” Felix grinned, squeezing Lozano’s shoulders tighter. Lozano tried to squirm away but couldn’t get out of Felix’s grip. “Listen… old buddy. Old colleague. Most mediocre two minutes in the bedroom. Whatever. I need you, or your father, or whoever… to contact someone for me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, Junior…” Felix grinned. “Then I tell everyone who will listen about what you were running out the back room of Amnesia.”

“You think people will care?” Gabriel said, unmoved. “You think that’ll be enough to get me charged?”

“With Ruben pulling strings? No. But, Junior…” Felix turned around, and pinched Gabriel’s cheek in the most patronizing way imaginable. “You’re in prison. Don’t you know the one standard of every inmate? Don’t you know who goes at the bottom of the pecking order?” 

“I didn’t fuck no kids!” Lozano snapped.

“Oh yeah, what’s a few years under the age of consent?” Felix asked cheerily. “Besides, I remember differently.”

“You started it! You came onto--”

“But I was thirteen, so you’re still to blame. Ain’t it grand? Besides, even if that’s the only time you partook, and you’re technically just barely an ephebophile… You think people are gonna care that you didn’t partake if you were still running single-digit whores?”

“You… you!” Lozano fumed, before raising his hands. “I should--”

“Kill me? Are you going to try that personally?”

Felix’s hand shot out and grabbed Lozano’s wrist before he twisted the man’s arm behind his back. Lozano let out a pained yelp and tried to squirm away, but it did no good.

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not thirteen any more,” Felix whispered, grinning. “You can’t beat me. And you might have friends… but they’re not among the inmates or they’d be by your side already. I’ve been watching all morning to make sure. If you think about gathering cronies, they’ll be the first to hear about your backroom business. As for the guards… well, we both have friends there.”

Shit.

“Play along, Little Lozano, and I won’t tell anyone. I won’t kill you. I’ll let you live out your prison sentence in peace and we can go our separate ways, and you can go back to pretending that you don’t fuck kids. Or I can kill you right now.”

Felix twisted his arm further. What little composure was left snapped.

“Okay! Okay…” Lozano yelled. “I’ll… I’ll hook you up with my publicist, whatever you want, just let go of me!”

“Got it backwards.” Felix leaned forward, using Lozano as a support. “I don’t want whoever’s been smoothing over your publicity. But any family that’s been involved in so much shit and had so little of it hit the press… you must know which reporters to talk to. And more importantly, which ones to avoid.”

Felix grinned, leaning even closer.

“What I want, Junior… is that reporter. The one who won’t stop until they’ve found the truth. I don’t need a publicist. I need a publicist’s worst nightmare.”

Lozano didn’t even have to think about it.

“...Yeah. I know who you want.”

 

* * *

Sister had never cancelled a visit before. Until now, the only ones she'd missed were due to her literally giving birth. This time, it also had to do with her son.  


“Play schedules are bullshit,” Sister told him. She sounded apologetic. “I mean, he tried telling me that he’d be fine if I skipped out on opening night, but--”

“Yeah, I get it. You need to be there,” Grif said as he leaned against the phone. “It’s fine, Sis.”

“You going to be alright?”

“Uh, I’m not a baby. I can handle missing one visit,” Grif said, injecting as much cavalier confidence into his voice as possible. “Hey, record it for me, would you? So I can watch it once I get out?”

“Hell yeah, I’d intended to anyway. Speedboat’s going to amaze the audience.”

“Does he actually have acting chops, or are you saying that just because you’re his mother?” Grif asked, grinning a little. “You can tell me.”

“Well, I don’t actually know yet. But I’m sure he’s going to be amazing because he probably has inherited my keen sense of drama. I just utilized it for other purposes. Like running nightclubs. I got a business partner recently to help me run things. I think he used to work in civil law, or maybe he still does, but now he runs raves? I swear it’s like dubstep follows him wherever he goes. Spencer’s wild. Great fashion. Hair like a unicorn horn.”

“...What?”

“Sorry, I got sidetracked.” 

“How does a guy have hair like a unicorn horn?”

“I’ll bring a photo next time.” Sister paused before saying, “I’m super bummed, though. I mean, not about the play, but--”

“Sis. It’s fine. Seriously. Call me after and tell me how it went, okay?”

“Yeah, for sure. And you won’t get drunk? Because I love booze, don’t get me wrong, but Donut told me you were getting into ‘sad, old drunk’ territory--”

“Oh my god, how does Donut keep talking to you? I’m not going to get drunk. I’m out of alcohol anyway, the guards keep confiscating it,” Grif grumbled.

“Good, because apparently it tastes like piss.”

“Eh, at this stage my tastebuds don’t even notice it.”

“Had that happen with absinthe.” There was a voice in the background of the call and Sister said, “Hey, I gotta go. Me and Spencer gotta go over some business. I’ll call you after the play, alright?”

“Yeah. Tell Speedboat to break a leg or whatever.”

“Will do.”

Grif hung up the phone before resting his head against the box.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself.

“That’s rough.”

“Jesus christ!” Grif yelped, jumping back from the sudden voice. “When the hell did you get here, Turkey?”

“Birdie. I’m Birdie,” the offending party said, frowning and staring at him from behind those gaudy red sunglasses. “And these are public phones. I have a right to be here.”

“Fine, whatever. Go nuts, dude.” Grif waved his hands at the phones. Birdie, however, didn’t move towards them. He just leaned on the same phone box, peering at Grif.

“You haven’t been back for more product. It wasn’t your thing?”

“No, I was pretty into it. Kind of. It’s complicated. But there’s guards everywhere, dude.”

“Hasn’t stopped you from turning your cell into a brewery,” Birdie said dryly. “Got some meth-meth shrooms in my pocket if you’re interested.”

“Jesus christ, is that why you’re hanging near the phones? To ambush people at their lowest emotional points?” Grif asked, jamming a thumb at the phone.

“To provide chemical support,” Birdie corrected him, grinning a little. “Why? Not interested?”

“...Fuck it, gimme a few doses.”

 

* * *

This was the first day since Sharkface had started his fling with Stassney that he hadn’t been in the mood for it. In fact, not being in the mood but still having interest in a partner--or a fling or whatever Stassney was, could they be partners if they were on opposite sides?--was unusual for Sharkface in general. His interest, as with most things in his life, tended to be either 100% or 0%. If he had no interest in touching his partner, it usually meant a break-up was imminent. Sharkface had never believed in dragging things out.

That wasn’t what was happening here.

“What’s up?” Stassney asked, tilting his head a little. Face flushed and breathing heavy, some light teeth marks on his collarbone.

It was the pinning that was the problem. Sharkface had, at some point, pinned Stassney to the floor. Probably to get a better angle on his buttons. Or his neck or his ears. The ears were ticklish.

The mood was different, of course it was. There was no predatory air despite the illegality of what they were doing, and both of them couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. But physically… it felt like yesterday, and Sharkface kept seeing that rat-faced asshole when he blinked. Kept feeling how he squirmed. And he had a vivid imagination for how his own threats would play out. He wasn’t guilty, exactly. He knew what he had and hadn’t meant. But he felt disgusted thinking about it, nonetheless.

If this position wasn't so evocative, maybe it would have been fine. If, say, Stassney was the one pinning him down. They’d tried that a few days ago, but that time Stassney had gotten uncomfortable. Muttered something about power imbalances. Other less aggressive positions were also an option. But the mood had been ruined.

“I’m not feeling this today,” Sharkface grunted, as he shifted off Stassney and sat down against the wall.

“Oh. Okay.” There was palpable disappointment in Stassney’s voice, but he didn’t press the matter further. He just sat up as well, shuffling backwards until he was also against the wall before working at buttoning his shirt back up. “...Can I hang here? I don’t want to go back to work yet.”

“Sure.”

Normally, this was when conversation flared up. Perhaps because of the abrupt stop, it instead descended into awkward silence. No conspiracy theories today. Sharkface watched Stassney out of the corner of his eye, as the guard fiddled with his buttons.

He wondered how open Stassney would be to smuggling.

“Why’re you a guard?” he asked.

Stassney continued fiddling with his buttons, eyes on that rather than Sharkface. “I don’t know. Couldn’t be an astronaut. Math grades weren’t high enough. And then I tried cop work, but… ugh. The training was harder. The training was easier for this.”

“That’s only a reason for why you’re not other things.”

“Well, why are you an arsonist?” Stassney retorted.

“I like fire. Easy enough.”

“...Well, shit. Seriously, I don’t know. It pays money. Capitalism makes us do things, you know?”

Sharkface tilted his head, watching Stassney carefully. After a moment he said, “There are ways to earn extra money in prison.”

Stassney went quiet for a moment, then looked at Sharkface with a squinted, suspicious gaze. “Are you trying to get me to do something I shouldn’t?”

“...Besides what we normally do?”

“Is this all a seduction plan so that I’ll smuggle in drugs? Dammit, I knew there was something wrong with you being interested in me.” Stassney covered his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Calm down.”

“You calm down!”

“Stassney.” Sharkface wrapped a hand around Stassney’s wrist and gently pulled one of his hands down. “I did not seduce you purely for the purpose of smuggling. I did that because you’re ridiculously pretty.”

“Oh, you’re so that one vote I got in the hotness contest,” Stassney muttered.

“One vote?! That contest was rigged,” Sharkface said dismissively.

“I don’t know about that.” Stassney grinned for a moment, but then the grin faded to be replaced by a frown. “I’m not smuggling. I… don’t do that. Okay? That’s just… I mean, I’m not a criminal!”

“Hrm.” Sharkface bit back a retort on how their past sessions said otherwise. He looked at Stassney, then shrugged and looked away. “I retract the question.”

“Okay. ...Good.”

 

* * *

Over the next few days, as Donut went about his business, he often ended up talking with Felix or checking in on him. Just to make sure that Locus or Sharkface hadn’t gotten to him yet. He’d also slip what food he could to him, since smuggling anything in took time and the commissary was still too expensive for full meals. Felix was skinny enough already that Donut was afraid he’d just fade into non-existence if he missed too many meals.

“I gotta be real. I’m not big on this debt.”

Donut looked over at Felix as he stood on his tiptoes to reach where he’d hung some laundry. “What debt?”

“Well… I’ll start with that rescue from Sharkbait,” Felix said, leaning against the wall. “Then there’s the fact that you’ve been feeding me for the last few days. And I can’t pay you back as long as I don’t have food, because my method of paying you back… is food. Candy, specifically, but still food.”

“Oh, that.” Donut shrugged before returning his attention to the clothing. “It’s fine. Just give me some Snickers when you can.”

“And if I never can?”

“Then… well, I’ll live.”

“That’s not how it works. Don’t think I’m going to let some sudden debt get me off guard.” Felix lifted his fingers and framed Donut like he was about to take a photo. “I can give you more tattoos, if you want.”

“Nah, I don’t want to cluster my skin up too quickly. I like the unicorn. It’s enough,” Donut said, looking down at his arm.

“True. Guess it wouldn’t be a great ongoing payment, anyway. You’d probably run out of skin eventually,” Felix said, tracing fingers over the snapdragons on his arms. He turned his arm over as he did so, caught a glimpse of the fish-shaped brand, and scowled before lowering his arm. “Then what do you want?”

“I just don’t like bullies, that’s all,” Donut said. “It’s about being a decent human being.”

“Donut, people aren’t that decent on the outside. Let alone in prison,” Felix said.

Donut only shrugged in response, neither confirming or denying it. Felix wasn't wrong, exactly. He’d probably be suspicious if he was in Felix’s place, now that he thought about it.

“Well, if you think of something--”

“I may have.” Felix tilted his head. “I don’t know if you want to hear it. After all, some of your friends get so huffy about it. Especially Lavernius ‘No-Homo-Even-Though-I’m-Sucking-Another-Man’s-Dick’ Tucker.”

“Tucker is weird about that,” Donut agreed. 

“I’ve just noticed that you… well, you’ve clearly been in here for a while,” Felix said carefully. “I thought maybe you were letting off steam with Caboose.” He nodded his head across the yard, where Caboose was currently patting Freckles. “But he doesn’t look like he has the brain power to understand it. And I’ve never heard of you being with anyone else.”

“I really don’t know what Caboose understands, sometimes,” Donut said, looking across the yard as well. He watched Caboose coo at Freckles for a moment, then frowned and looked back at Felix. “Wait. ...Are you, uh…?”

“I may be… ‘uh,’” Felix said, grinning.

“...As payment?”

“Oh, you’d be getting your money’s worth, for sure.”

Donut tilted his head a little, considering it.

It definitely wasn’t that Felix was unattractive. He was fairly average, although when he smiled like he was now… that upped the attraction a fair bit. Any beauty that Felix possessed lay in his charisma and expression, not his basic looks. And Felix wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t had sex for a long time, and given that he was surrounded by dudes--often in varying states of nudity--sometimes that was a little trying. He'd had worse one-night stands on the outside, that was for sure.  


Even so.

“No, thank you,” Donut said politely. He looked downwards quickly, folding clothes once more. As such, he missed the cloud that passed over Felix’s face for a split second before it was replaced with a shrug and a grin.

“Well, had to try.” Felix looked away, then paused. “Oh. Ohhhhh shit. Uh… hey, uh, Donut? You might want to look over there.”

“What?” Donut looked at Felix, then looked at where Felix was pointing. Immediately, he felt a wave of terror (with perhaps a tinge of frustration) sweep through his stomach. “Oh, shit.”

He knew, the moment he saw Grif, that he hadn’t kept a close enough eye on him lately.

 

* * *

Grif had held off eating any more meth-meth shrooms for a few days. There were multiple reasons for this.

One of those reasons was just that Donut was around a lot. Not all the time. Not like when he’d been specifically following Grif around for the purposes of keeping him clean. But enough that any stretch of absence often meant that Grif was either sure he’d be back too soon--and if he was wrong, by the time he started considered that Donut would finally reappear--or he was simply too far away from the shrooms. Given that Donut was a very huggy and generally tactile person--at least towards him and Caboose--he was liable to end up feeling them out by accident. Freckles had nothing on him.

Although, that was also an issue. Freckles and C.C wandering about, sniffing at people. They didn’t seem to always notice the meth-meth shrooms, Birdie said. His theory was that it was just such a bizarre drug that they weren’t trained for it. But sometimes they’d sniff and sit down, even when people weren’t holding anything. Grif had, at one point, seen York walking through the cells with C.C and considered flushing them. He’d barely held off, and C.C hadn’t noticed.

Too many jitters. Grif may have been fairly desperate for some kind of distraction, but he didn’t want to get caught. Not with roughly a year left before potential parole. Not with deaths in the shoe.

But the day before visitor’s day, knowing that he was going to have to wait at least another month for a visitor of his own, he just couldn’t fucking help himself. The moment Donut was out of sight he shoved a couple in his mouth. Still tasted gross. Still that ‘licking a dirty hottub’ flavor.

And then he waited. He waited for quite a while. He sat in his cell, staring at the corner that he’d seen Simmons in last time. Nothing.

Now he was jittery in an entirely different way. Like hot wires buzzing under his skin. Good but itchy. He wanted to move. Needed to move. He ended up leaving his cell--originally intending to hide out there for the duration of the high--and jogging through the corridors, passing inmates that seemed to be moving in slow-motion.

Any annoyance at having to move was gone. A lot of bad feelings that had built up over the past month or so were gone. He… he felt happy. A little disappointed that there was no Simmons--real or fake--to chat to this time. Maybe a tiny bit relieved, too. But besides that, uncomplicated, buzzing euphoria.

Damn, these were good fucking one-ups.

It was bright outside. Grif jogged into the yard and immediately started making laps, keeping to the edges and peering around. He thought he saw a couple of glimpses of a melty blur that might have been Simmons, but when he blinked the blur was gone. Or maybe he was amongst all the other slow-moving people. It was hard to tell. Colours were vivid and features were twisted in a way that made some people look inhumanely beautiful, others look nightmarish, and yet others simply look weird. The world was like one of those carnival houses with the wiggly mirrors.

Man, Grif could really go for some cotton candy.

Perhaps it was for this reason that Grif’s attention eventually zoomed in on the bundle of fur that was Freckles, once again being led around by Caboose. North was watching Caboose from nearby with his arms crossed, clearly charged with keeping him and Freckles supervised.

“Sup, Caboose. Can I pat him? Lemme pat him.”

Caboose seemed to take a very long time to respond, even for Caboose.

“I will have to ask him. Freckles, can Mean Gruf pat you?” Freckles didn’t respond, instead choosing to scratch himself. Caboose waited patiently for an answer, then looked back at Grif. “He said no.”

“That’s bullshit, man. That’s all kinds of shit. Bullshit, dogshit, whaleshit. Do whales shit?”

Caboose slowly blinked at him. It freaked Grif out for a second, because Caboose’s eyelids just seemed to be melting into his face, but then they reformed and it was fine. 

“You are very fast today,” Caboose finally said.

“No, you’re slow. Not in a brain-damage way--I mean, you are, but that’s normal--but in a slow-motion way.”

“You are fast-happy. You’re going to use up all the happy and be really sad later,” Caboose said sternly.

“No I’m not. I feel awesome. Look how fucking sunny it is. How can I use up happy? I never run out of sad when I’m sad, so I won’t run out of happy when I’m happy. You want some? No, you’re usually happy, too.” Grif looked around, peering at the crowd of inmates.

Misery loves company. Grif was pretty sure euphoria should want company, too. No reason for only the bad feelings to like it.

He zoned in on the first frown he saw. Then he zoned out a little more to look at the man wearing it. Goddamn, he was tall. Kind of crazy-good-looking, too, barring the scars. Actually, the scars had some style, particularly the x-shaped one. That guy… Mocus? Focus? Locus Pocus? The guy with the unspecific but probably horrific crimes. He needed to be happier. Then he’d be less likely to murder and eat people, or whatever he does.

“Hold that thought, I gotta work on that guy,” Grif said to Caboose, before heading in Locus’ direction.

“Which guy?” There was a pause from Caboose and then a quiet, “Ohhhhh no.”

“Hey. Hey! Handsome guy!” Grif bellowed.

Locus did not pay attention until it became obvious that Grif was beelining for him. “...What?”

“You need to be happier, you’re ruining mine by being grumpy. ...Holy shit, you’re tall.” Grif peered upwards for a moment before refocusing. “You need to smile.”

“What.”

“It’s a fucking nice day and you need to be happier. And smiling’ll make you happy. Or you could eat some one-ups. You get a one-up, you eat it, you get way happier and then you save-a da princess.”

“...No.”

“Dude,” Grif said, annoyance creeping into his tone. “Why you gotta hush my buzz? You gotta be like this stupidly handsome rock that won’t let me skip you across a pond?”

Locus just stared at him. Grif, naturally, decided that the next course of action should be to try and make Locus smile so he’d realise being happy was awesome. He did this by reaching up and trying to press his thumbs into the sides of Locus’ mouth, though he only succeeded in awkwardly stroking his face.

“Dude. Princesses aren’t going to rescue themselves,” he said sternly.

“Stop. Touching. My face,” Locus said tersely.

Grif, not paying any attention to those words, saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned. Donut was nearby, hands halfway through folding up a dried jumpsuit. He was staring right at Grif carelessly touching Locus, with a facial expression--only enhanced by Grif’s skewed vision blowing his features up to disturbing proportions--similar to that of a gas station attendant watching a careless customer toss a half-burned cigarette right by the gas tanks. Behind Donut, Felix was peering over his shoulder and had his hand clasped over his mouth.

Not only that, but North was now watching Grif as well. He pushed himself off the wall and started walking towards Grif, hands on his belt and not far from his nightstick.

...Fuck. Right. The shoe.

“Play it cool,” Grif told Locus.

“You are still holding my face,” Locus growled.

“Grif,” North said sternly as he approached. “Come with me.”

“Why? Where’s my Miranda rights? I got so many Miranda rights that I don’t know where to fucking keep them all,” Grif said quickly, finally letting go of Locus’ face to round on North. Locus immediately slipped away, walking as quickly as he could.

“You don’t get Miranda rights in prison. We’re going to see Sheila.”

“I’m healthy. Healthy and happy as a pig in shit, why would you ruin that for me? Y’dick.”

North raised his barely visible eyebrows. He took a step forward and grasped Grif’s arm.

“Don’t fight me on this. Come along now, and if you haven’t done anything they’ll be nothing to be afraid of.”

Panic was starting to ripple under the euphoria. Grif’s fist tightened as the impulse to just punch North in the face and make a break for it surged through him. He raised his fist, but before he could throw it someone stepped between him and North, wedging between them and getting North's grip to loosen on Grif.  


“He’s just ill, North. He’s been on and off delirious lately,” Donut told North quickly. “It’s his age catching up with him, I think. You know how it is.”

North turned to Donut. Immediately, his expression was polite and friendly.

“I don’t think Grif is old enough for that. And if he is, then it’s all the more reason to see Sheila.”

“North, I wouldn’t lie to you.” Donut gave Grif a quick nudge with his elbow as he moved a little around North, turning his attention further from Grif. “We’re cool, right?”

North looked at Donut, then looked at Grif once more. His expression was once again sterner when he eyed Grif, but then he looked back at Donut.

“I can’t turn a blind eye to this.”

“Turn a blind eye to what? He’s just old and delirious.”

Donut engaged in a fairly pleasant argument with North, and for whatever reason North went along with it. Grif watched them for a moment, mostly distracted by how the sunlight was gleaming off North’s hair--although his face was doing some sort of bizarre tentacle thing--when someone wrapped their arm around his and pulled him away.

“Come on.”

“Sup, Bitters,” Grif said cheerily.

Bitters just rolled his eyes, dragging him back into the prison while North was occupied. “In the middle of the yard? Really?”

“I wanted to jog.”

“Ugh, you took the meth-meth shrooms, didn’t you? Palomo ate one by accident because he thought it was a regular mushroom--don’t even ask--and he was bouncing off the walls. That guy has too much energy anyway, so everyone just thought that was normal for him. It’s more obvious with you because you move at the speed of a slug most of the time.”

“Your face is a slug.”

“Wow. Got me there.”

“Hey, Bitterrrrs? Why doesn’t anyone want me to be happy? Like, why is that so fuckin’ illegal? I mean, shit feels awesome. Like all… brrrrrrrooooooooaaaaaaaaar.”

“I am so annoyed that I know what you mean,” Bitters grumbled.

“Right, you know where it’s at. You’re a maverick. We’re both just a couple of mavericks surrounded by, like… dudes who won’t smile or dudes who are made out of sugar but won’t share their secrets on how they manage to stay peppy without drugs or alcohol.” 

Grif gave Bitters a pat on the face, watching the skin ripple hazily like a pond. Made the little sores on his face wiggle like bugs. God, that made Grif feel itchy. Grif scratched at his own face as they walked along.

Eventually, they reached Grif’s cell.

“Okay, now stay here,” Bitters said. “If you gotta take stuff, don’t be stupid about it.”

“But I’m bored. There’s no-one here. I just want to hang out with someone and be happy, and everyone’s like ‘Grif, you’re doing it wrong.’” Grif headed into the cell, rifling around until he found the remaining shrooms. “It’s like, come on. These are like… I’m actually happy, dude. I just want people to chill with me and also be happy, because then they won’t be hushing my buzz and I’ll feel even more awesomer.”

He held out the little bag of blue, slightly crystalline mushrooms.

“We can totally hang, I don’t mind sharing.”

Bitters stared at the shrooms. Then at Grif.

“I don’t do--”

“Why not? It feels way better than being sober. Hell, right now it’s even got liquor beat.”

Bitters said nothing. His face was all twisted up, but one of his hands was extending slowly towards the bag.

Then there was a blur--fast, even in Grif’s slowed down view. Another hand, pudgier than Bitters with his long, skinny fingers, slapped the bag of shrooms out of Grif’s hands and sent them scattering across the floor.

Grif couldn’t remember now if Matthews had been following them, or always been there, or simply appeared by happenstance. Either way, he was in sharp focus as he stared Grif down. There was fury in every inch of his normally cheery face, and despite his small height and round features it made Grif feel like Matthews towered over him.

“Grif, sir, what you take is not any of our business and I won’t lecture you on how you’re conducting yourself,” Matthews said quietly. He looked at Bitters, who had retracted his hand and was looking a little mortified at the fact that it’d been out to begin with. Then he looked back at Grif. “But, with respect, if you offer anything to Bitters again… you will have me to answer to, sir.”

Grif said nothing. Matthews glared at him for one more moment, then turned away. He and Bitters exchanged looks. Matthews looked a little concerned for a moment, raising his eyebrows and looking apprehensive, but Bitters nodded a little and Matthews’ expression relaxed. 

They both left silently, leaving Grif to pick up the meth-meth shrooms before the thirty-second rule took effect.

 

* * *

Flowers was at his usual station in the parking lot, and perhaps taking the opportunity to nap a little. Saving his energy for patrolling was important, especially given how jittery the prison was lately. And today--the day before visitor’s day--often had a small influx of people who had confused the date and would try to get in to visit anyway.

As he leaned back on his chair, in the booth beside the boomgate, he assumed the taxi that pulled up outside the prison was one of those confused visitors. He suppressed a yawn before sitting up straighter and trying to look like he hadn’t been slacking off. Sending away loved ones of inmates was not a fun part of the job.

But he recognised the figure that climbed out of the back and walked towards the prison, even if he wasn’t wearing his usual guard uniform. Flowers got to his feet and left the boomgate upon recognising him.

“Well, look who’s back from the dead,” he said cheerfully.

Wash looked back at him with a tired stare, indeed appearing as if he’d just risen from the grave. Wash had always looked mildly sleep-deprived, but the shadows under his eyes were far too dark and his face gaunt in a way that suggested he hadn’t been eating well, if at all. 

“I look worse than I feel,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “And sitting at home won’t do me any more good.”

If this had been anyone else, Flowers would have told them to go back home and get some rest. But this was Washington. Flowers might not have been on the most personal terms with him, but he knew enough to know that Wash wouldn’t go home if asked, and to understand why.

Instead, Flowers looked at Wash’s pressed, long-sleeved collared shirt. It was a little loose on him, as were the pants. “Dressed to impress?”

Wash frowned, tugging his sleeves a little. “I didn’t think turning up here in a hoodie and jeans would look great.” His words were slow, and he paused a lot. His expression was focused, but there was also a perpetual hint of confusion.

Flowers nods a little, then gestured at the entrance. “Is she expecting you?”

“...She?”

“Niner?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I… yeah. I called ahead,” Wash said.

“Then I’ll accompany you.”

“I know the way,” Wash said dryly. “O’Malley didn’t… didn’t knock that out of me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, you’ll find that the prison missed you,” Flowers said as he opened the prison door for Wash.

“Uh huh, sure.”

“Oh, I’m not exaggerating. You’ll see. The triplets, I hear, tried to break into your hospital room at least once.”

“I… don’t remember that. But the last couple of weeks are blurry.”

Flowers stopped only a dozen feet into the prison, before turning around. Wash came to a near-immediate halt as well.

“I heard that you may have sustained brain damage,” Flowers said. “How much brain damage?”

“It’s… mild.”

“Wash. Please. Understand that, as your captain, I have to know.”

Wash looked at him, then looked down.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said reluctantly. “Sometimes I’m… slower. Sometimes my brain disconnects things. Sometimes I take longer to think. Like… like my brain is walking in shallow mud. Usually with words. Words are… are harder than most actions, except for… I have difficulty making coffee? But… I’m fast enough. I still know how to do my job.”

“Fast enough, hm?” Flowers looked behind him, casually scanning the corridor. “That’s hard to test on this job. If you’re wrong, you could miss a shiv and end up right back in the hospital. Or someone else might.”

Wash’s eyebrows creased. “If you think I’m unsuited--”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you should check before returning to the job.” He looked back over Wash’s shoulder, checking the other half of the corridor, before taking three steps back from Wash. Then, slowly, he shifted his stance and raised his hands. Open palms, but on guard. “So show me.”

“What,” Wash said flatly.

“If you can hit me once, I will believe you. I will back you up when you talk to Niner.” Flowers smiled peacefully at Wash, tilting his head. “I believe in you. But I need to see it.”

Wash stared at him, then shook his head. “...What?” After a moment passed and he received no further explanation (or an indication that he’d imagined Flowers’ words) he said, “You’re not serious.”

“Wash, do I look like I’m kidding?” When there was still no movement, Flowers shifted his stance, now closing his fists and raising them further. “Hit me before I hit you, agent.”

At that last word, there’s a few moments as Wash stares at him blankly. Then it clicks into place, and Wash’s eyes widen and his face pales. One more second. Then he shifts his stance to mirror Flowers’ own.

“Better. Now hit me.”

Wash lunges forward, throwing a few kicks and punches in Flowers’ direction. They’re disconnected. They don’t follow through right, like he’s forgetting the next step each time. He also sees that Wash tenses before he hits, that his blows pull a little back. 

Flowers weaves through it effortlessly. As he steps out of the way of the last kick, he moves behind Wash and taps him on the shoulder pleasantly.

“You can do better.”

The tap, and those slightly patronizing words, send rage rippling across Wash like a stone across a pond. His next punches don’t pull. They’re still somewhat disconnected, but Flowers can see the hints of a pattern. This time, Flowers side-steps and gives Wash a more painful tap on the side of the head using his knuckle. Wash noticeably winces harder at that than he normally would have.

“Closer. Give it one more try.”

Wash tries. He does. Flowers can see it in how his muscles strain, how his attacks take on an almost vicious, desperate quality. Not a quality wanted in a guard, generally, but Flowers smiles anyway. And as the one-sided fight progresses, Wash’s moves start to make more sense.

The last two attempts, Wash punches straight for the face. Flowers sees the feint coming in how Wash’s eyes move, and doesn’t move out of the way of the fake attack. Wash only realises his mistake when Flowers grabs the wrist of his other hand.

“I would now break your wrist if this was a real fight,” Flowers says pleasantly, before pulling up Wash’s hand and giving it a quick, friendly pat. “But not today. Better. Disconnected, but… better. You should practice each morning. I found that helped me, although my injury was more physical.”

Wash pulls his hand back. He looks confused, afraid and angry all in one.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, with the air of someone asking when his execution would be. “How many of… of you… are there here?”

“You understand that I can’t tell you that, Wash,” Flowers said kindly. “Did you think South was the only one?”

Wash’s scowl gets more pronounced at that. “Yes. I did.”

“Let me reassure you. This little spar had little to do with a boss we once shared. As far as I know, you have nothing to fear from them.”

“Then why tell me?”

“You haven’t ratted South out to the authorities, so I assume you won’t do so to me,” Flowers said airily.

“That’s… that’s not an answer.”

“Fair. The answer is… that I want you to understand that I know, Wash.” For once, Flowers didn’t smile. He stared at Wash straight on, and his expression was unusually serious. “I want you to know that if you need help, I can give it. But I also need you to know that I respect your abilities, and acknowledge that you are still capable despite damage both recent and distance. I want you to know because I had no-one when it happened to me. I know what it’s like to be discarded, Wash.” Then his smile brightened as he reached out and carefully smoothed Wash’s collar, which had been rumpled in the fight. Wash cringed back a little at the touch, though just a little. “Shall we talk to Niner, then?”

Wash had spent Flowers’ last few sentences squinting at him, mouth moving slightly as he listened, and he took a very long time to respond.

“I didn’t hit you,” he said finally.

“Nope,” Flowers said cheerfully. “But I am amazingly skilled. So we’ll consider this an A for effort and I’ll back you up anyway.”

“...Okay?”

“Oh, and one more thing. We have yet to find O’Malley’s little sidekick, so if you should happen to remember something, or find out who it was by other means…” Flowers grins, and this time there’s a hard edge to it. “Bring that information straight to me. I will take care of it. Pinky swear.”

He holds up his little finger expectantly. Wash stared blankly at him for a moment, then shook his head.

“I… don’t need that promise. I’ll handle it. I… I’m going to fix what went wrong,” Wash said. Voice quiet but determined.

Flowers did not lower his pinky. “In that case… I still think you should ask for help. With the investigations occuring, it wouldn’t be good for you to lack an alibi.”

Wash’s eyebrows scrunched together at the word ‘investigations.’ He looked at Flowers’ pinky for a moment longer, then turned away from it.

“Niner will think I’m late,” he muttered.

“True.” Flowers lowered his hand before smiling at Wash and moving forward. “Shall we go reassure her, then?”


	16. Chapter Thirteen: Snooping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitor's day occurs, with some visits from some parents. Wash tries to figure out how to deal with some things. And a reporter infiltrates the prison and tries to feel out the truth on what's been happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the warning tags again.
> 
> Not entirely happy with this and had to move scenes to the next chapter again (EVERY TIME) because a lack of time and room, but... ehhh. It's progress.

Wash had been allowed to return to work under two conditions.

The first was that he had to be honest about his condition. He had to tell Niner or Flowers if it got worse. Wash didn’t bother explaining to them that he’d been through worse, and that recovering from that ‘worse’ had not been linear, so presumably any after-effects of O’Malley and his accomplice beating him repeatedly over the head wouldn’t be either. Even if he’d wanted to try, the conversation had been over before he could piece his thoughts together on the subject. So he’d just nodded and agreed.

The second was that he had to be supervised for at least the first week back, just to make sure he was capable. That was… irritating. How could he fix things with someone clinging to him? For that matter, what was the point of returning to work if he had to be babysat? He suspected Niner only gave his job back out of pity.

God, Wash hated pity.

He waited in the breakroom. Uniform felt wrong. Loose. But at least someone had already brewed a pot of coffee. Wash stood by the wall, staying out of the way and distracting himself by trying to figure out what this big chart with gold star stickers on the wall was.

Other staff passed by to get their own coffee. There was a multitude of different reactions to his presence.

Some guards had seemed… wary. Or pitying. The sorts of emotions that involved standing at the other end of the room staring at him. This was more common with guards he hadn’t talked to much, though not exclusive to them. Others had nodded quietly at him, in a way that almost seemed respectful.

Some reactions stood out. He remembers Stassney not approaching him, but audibly telling Kilgore and Blanton that ‘y’can’t crack someone’s egg that much without it getting scrambled. His response had been to stare at Stassney in a way that suggested he’d scramble Stassney himself if he didn’t shut up and move along. He remembers North talking to him in an overly quiet, almost patronizing tone. Like he was a child rigged with explosives. He remembers the triplets, because they’d crowded around and spent ages yelling happily at him.

“We tried to visit, but they weren’t allowing visitors and--”

“Iowa licked the glass on the window near your room because it was really cold and he said it’d let him check if it was cold enough to make you sick.”

“My tongue didn’t stick, so it was fine,” Iowa insisted.

“I still don’t think that was hygienic,” Idaho said. “Did it taste germy?”

“It tasted like dishwashing liquid. Made my tongue tingly.”

“Guys, do not start with--” Ohio started irritably. 

“Five things you’ve licked that taste worse than a hospital window. Go!”

It hadn’t been surprising that they were happy. Only surprising that they weren’t the only ones. Tex, in particular, had been a huge surprise since they rarely talked at all. But she’d stopped, looked him up and down for a moment, then lightly punched him.

“You just don’t quit, do you? You’re like a cockroach,” she’d said to him with a grin.

Wash had shrugged at her. “Quitting isn’t… a life skill I really picked up?”

“Well, you got ovaries, I’ll tell you that much,” Tex said. “Anyway, it’s good you’re back. Means York’ll stop following around whoever’ll talk to him like some lonely puppy, thank god.”

And then there was South.

She’d turned up and come to a flat halt, watching him. Wash had pointedly ignored her presence, as he always did. Still staring at the chart, still not making heads or tails of it. South had moved over to the counter and gotten her coffee, then watched him for a little longer. Not… wary, exactly. Not tense enough for it.

She’d taken a couple of steps towards him and opened her mouth to speak. Wash had cut her off.

“No,” he’d said coldly. It was all he had to say. He was not dealing with this right now.

He expected a response, despite not wanting it. But South didn’t give one. Just shut her mouth and left the room. That was… odd, honestly. South would normally take that as a challenge.

He didn’t see Doc. He was a little glad for it. He wasn’t ready for that. Not until he’d made it up to him, or at least taken a step in that direction. And he couldn’t do that until he was able to either give his supervisor the slip--if he’d known it’d take so long for them to show up, he would have just left now--or prove himself well enough to be allowed to wander on his own.

Finally, York turned up with Freckles and C.C both in tow. Wash was alerted to his presence by the noise of the two dogs sniffing the floor and thumping along rather than York himself. When he turns, York is watching him while struggling with the leashes. A grin breaks out over his face.

“Thanks for telling me you were out of the hospital. Jerk,” York says, relief evident in his voice.

“Yeah, uh… sorry. It… I did mean to tell you, I just didn’t… uh…” 

Wash trailed off as he scratched the back of his neck absently. To be honest, he didn’t have a good reason. He knew why he hadn’t contacted Doc, but with York… maybe it was just that discomfort that had gotten Wash to distance himself in the first place.

“It’s fine, man.” There was a hint of something terse behind York’s gentle brush-off, but even so York continued to grin. “So, Niner told me to supervise you for the week. Might have to trade off with someone else at times depending on how our shifts go, but I figured she thought I was best.” He held out Freckles’ leash. “You good to handle Freckles?”

“...Yes,” Wash said, although he was not sure at all.

He took the leash. Freckles fixed him with his usual unimpressed look before settling down on the floor, putting his face in between his paws and shutting his eyes for an intended nap. Wash watched him briefly before giving him a quick scratch behind the ears. Freckles’ continued disdain was almost a comfort.

“York. I, uh…”

Maybe he’d been considering something like an apology for distancing himself, or at least some acknowledgment of it. Or a reassurance--true or false--that he was fine enough to work, and that it wouldn’t be weird. But after an inability to find the words, he instead pointed at the chart of gold stars on the wall.

“What the hell is this?” Wash asked. He pointed at his own name. “Why is ‘fourth’ written next to me?”

“Oh, shit, you never saw this? Inmates voted on attractiveness. Totally rigged,” York said dismissively.

Bizarre. Oddly complimentary, but bizarre.

“...Bitter, huh?” Wash asked, pressing a finger to York’s name, which had ninth listed next to it.

“I don’t need to be bitter. It’s rigged,” York said snootily.

Wash’s mouth twisted into a bit of a grin. “Right, right. Rigged.” His eyes traveled further down the list, before landing on Doc’s name. No stars. Was that a comfort? Either way, it made Wash’s stomach twist and his jaw tighten.

He had to fix things.

“Where are we patrolling?” 

“Uh, y’know. Wherever. Yard. Cell blocks. Wherever we might dig up drugs,” York said.

“Not SHU?” Wash tried to keep his voice casual.

“Nah. Not that I’m complaining. That place still stinks of piss, shit and puke from O’Malley kicking it,” York said as he gave C.C a pat. “Probably smells even worse to you, C.C?”

It took several seconds to catch up. Wash stared dumbly at York as he continued to ramble about dogs, stinks and what they’d be doing today. The words didn’t process. Finally he said, “...What?”

“What? Oh. ...Shit, no-one told you?” York looked back at Wash, a frown crossing his face. “I guess Niner must have had other things on her mind, especially since you’re basically the only person off the suspect list.”

“The… what? What are you…” Wash blinked at York a few times before saying, “No, you’re not saying that. You gotta be kidding me. He’s not… the fuck kind of joke is this, York?”

“Wash, my jokes are actually funny.” 

York explained what had happened. That O’Malley was found dead, that it was suspected to be deliberate. That there was supposedly an investigation, but one that had turned up nothing so far. Wash didn’t quite grasp the details. All that really sunk in was that someone had killed O’Malley before he could.

“Oh,” is all Wash can say outloud.

“It’s pretty messed up, huh?” York said. A shadow crosses over his face for a moment, then he grins at Wash. “But hey, we can’t stand here all day, right? Let’s go, uh… fight crime!” 

There’s a strong sense of fake joviality in those words. York clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Did he know something or was he just uncomfortable?

“York… do you… do you know, uh... “

“I don’t know anything about whatever’s happening,” York said before Wash could finish asking. “Come on, daylight’s wasting.”

He definitely knew something. 

Wash stared at York’s back as he headed towards the door, C.C trotting at his heels. Then he looked at Freckles, who yawned and clambered to his feet before pulling him in that direction as well. Freckles seemed to know better what to do than Wash did.

He couldn’t think. Not right now. There was almost a faint ringing in his ears, a static clouding his brain even over the fog that had existed for the last couple of weeks. The static was familiar. He remembered it from looking at the obituaries and seeing Maine’s picture.

But this time the reason was different. Sure, it still tasted of that bitterness that came with someone yanking revenge away from him. But this time it also came accompanied with guilt and confusion.

He was going to make it up to Doc. To make sure O’Malley couldn’t continue harming him. And someone had beaten him to it. How was he going to even start to make it up with Doc if the source of his problems was already dead? 

 

* * *

Locus woke up the moment that Felix slipped an arm around his neck in a motion that could have been leading to either cuddling or a headlock. It was a lapse on Locus’ part that he didn’t hear Felix before then.

“Off,” Locus muttered, though he made no move to push Felix away. Honestly, he’d been expecting something like this since Felix got that fish burned into his hand.

Felix, true to form, ignored him. Instead, he just started sliding his hands further down Locus’ front with a hum. Locus rolled his eyes and sat up, which only succeeded in pulling Felix with him.

“You know that’s a risk,” he told Felix.

“Cells aren’t open yet,” Felix muttered. Locus felt teeth scrape against his neck.

“That changes nothing. What if one of his guards--”

Felix said nothing. Only bit down hard enough to draw blood. Locus tensed up a bit, though he was practiced at not making a sound. He knew the exact expression he’d see on Felix’s face if he could look behind him right now.

Felix had no concept of the word ‘no.’ Locus had the physical strength to overpower him, but Felix would just return until he got what he wanted or until Locus lost patience and caved in his skull. It was overall a lesser risk to their job if Locus gave him what he wanted now.

Once Felix was done--Locus was done long before him, always was--he shifted in Locus’ lap before pulling himself off with an unpleasant squelch. Felix flopped back onto the bed, then grinned. The same shit-eating grin that he usually wore, but one that hadn’t been directed at Locus in a week. 

Locus turned away, climbing off the bed and heading to the sink to wash up. The moment the cells opened, he’d have to go straight to the showers. For now, he felt chafed and sticky. Behind him, still sprawled on Locus’ bunk, Felix started chatting like nothing had ever happened.

“So, how’s things going with your new dad?”

Locus raised his eyebrows as he turned to look at Felix. “Is that referring to C.T?”

“Sometimes I see you just trailing after him like he’s a mother duckling. Just because your dad had the good sense to walk out when you were little, doesn’t mean you have to cling to any father figure that appears.”

Locus turned back to the sink.

“He doesn’t share his plans with me. Sometimes he tells me to move things from one place to another. That’s all. I suspect he’s waiting to see if I tell anyone where or what I’m moving,” Locus said shortly.

“Aaaaand what are you moving?”

Locus didn’t respond.

“Oh man, all dedicated and shit,” Felix grinned. “So that’s it?”

“Have you done anything else?”

“Uhhh, yeah? I’ve done more than you have, jackass. I blackmailed a kiddy-fiddler. And I tried to seduce my way into some meatshields but turns out that Donut has no fucking taste.” There was a significant note of bitterness in Felix’s voice. Locus had to work to suppress a small smile at that.

“Imagine that,” he said quietly.

“Shut up. Just because you’re a robot, doesn’t mean everyone is. I mean, look at me. The fuck is wrong with him?” Felix got up, legs noticeably wobbly, and started pacing irritably. His voice getting more heated. “What. The fuck. Is wrong with him?”

“Hm,” Locus grunted, hoping futily that Felix would take the hint and understand that he wasn’t interested in hearing about it.

“I mean, just… wow. Wow.” There was a pause in Felix’s footsteps, then they made a beeline for Locus before Felix leaned on him. “I mean, even you have some kind of blip on your radar that knows I’m prime hotness.”

“No.”

“But he’s just ‘oh, no thank you.’ Like I offered him a snack he didn’t want. Asshole. I’ll show him. I’m gonna be so… soooo fucking charming. I got charm coming out of my ass,” Felix muttered under his breath. “By the time I’m done, he’s going to be so in love with me. That’ll teach him.”

“Mmhm,” Locus grunted.

Felix pressed his face into the crook of Locus’ neck. Locus could feel him grinning. “Jealous?”

“No,” Locus said honestly. “I pity anyone who falls in love with you.”

“I know, right?” 

 

* * *

The parking lot was starting to fill up with visitors, although visiting hours were still half an hour away. Many of said visitors had already gotten out of their cars for a breath of fresh air, particularly those with licence plates that came from another state like the aging lesbian couple who were discussing, in great detail, whether the guards would let them give their son a plate of cupcakes if they cut them all open in front of the guards first to prove that nothing had been smuggled in.

However, there was a pair who hadn’t climbed out of their car just yet. The woman sitting behind the wheel stared intently at the prison, sizing it up like she was about to attempt a heist. In a way, she was.

“Dylan. This is your worst idea yet,” Frank muttered from the passenger seat.

“That remains to be seen,” Dylan said, resting her chin on her fingers as she stared the building down.

She’d received a lot of odd calls in her day. That came with the territory of being a journalist. But she had not expected a call from Gabriel Lozano, of all people. The Lozanos avoided her like the plague, and her boss, Carlos, had essentially forbidden her to contact them or even consider writing any stories on them. Dylan had tried to protest, even just on the grounds that she couldn’t avoid Lozano forever considering that her twin brother worked for him. She also assumed that her brother had been the one who gave Lozano her contact information to begin with.

(Truth be told, she and her brother didn’t talk much. Partly because her brother was a criminal, and partly because the twins shared a name and it made for confusing conversations. Their parents had thought it was a cute idea, but having to introduce themselves as ‘I’m Dylan with a Y and that’s Dillon with an I’ got really fucking tiresome. Still, he occasionally had some great leads even if it was usually for criminals that his bosses wanted out of the way.) 

“It’s perfect,” Dylan said, still staring the building down. “With all the visitors entering--”

“I think they’ll notice if we enter any non-visitor area,” Frank said.

“It shouldn’t be too hard. No-one expects people to be breaking into prison,” Dylan enthused. “Besides, I have a contact that should help us inside. Well, Lozano does. Contact of a contact of a contact. We get in. We ask questions.”

“Questioning ruthless, angry criminals? Sure. How could that go wrong?” Frank muttered. “And if a guard sees us?”

“We’ll improvise.” Dylan pointed at Frank, although her eyes hadn’t moved from the prison. “There’s a story here, Frank. And I will uncover it, no matter what. We’re journalists, and truth is our currency. Just keep the camera running.”

“It’s not even a proper camera,” Frank said, looking down at his phone.

“Well, they’ll notice camera equipment. We need to think stealthy.”

“Or we could cover something that’s actually worth covering and less likely to get us arrested.” Frank looked at the prison again and sighed. “We’re so getting arrested.”

“If we get arrested, we can always tell the media why. Thus exposing the potential corruption anyway. Win-win,” Dylan said, grinning.

“...It really isn’t.”

 

* * *

Grif was feeling pretty mixed today.

On one hand, he didn’t feel as flat-out miserable as he had upon knowing he had to wait for visitors. Even though he felt a little jealous of Donut and Tucker, both of whom had eaten fast before heading straight for the visitor’s rooms, that bitter was only a vague aftertaste. The meth-meth shrooms felt like they’d almost cleared his head a little. Got rid of most of the junk. Like spring cleaning that he’d made Sim--someone else do.

On the other hand, aside from the bitter aftertaste of jealousy, there was also… well, Bitters. Grif didn’t see either him or Matthews in the cafeteria, and wasn’t sure what he would have done if he did. But he knew enough to know that he’d fucked up there. 

Donut had also been watching him again this morning, but so far hadn’t said anything regarding yesterday’s high. Just watched and frowned. Grif really didn’t care for that shit.

Church, Caboose and the Lopezes were still at the table. The Lopezes were discussing something amongst themselves, and Grif really didn’t care to try and understand what. Caboose was humming to himself lightly as he sorted his cereal. Church, meanwhile, had his forehead pressed into the ball of his hand and his eyes shut, kneading his forehead as he did so.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Grif asked through a mouthful of cereal.

“Headache,” Church grunted. “Stop talking.”

“Nah. I’m bored, I want to talk,” Grif said, leaning forward and grinning a little. “So how about that game last night?”

“Which--”

“Fuck, I dunno. Football. Basketball. That one that Flynt and Rookie mess around with sometimes. Actually, that one’s pretty solid. They won’t give it a fucking name, though.”

“Wow, I just… so don’t care. Stop,” Church grunted.

As Grif leaned back again, he saw that Caboose was watching Church out of the corner of his eye, head tilted with a slightly puzzled frown. He didn’t say anything, though. Just returned to sorting his cereal. This time, he wasn’t humming.

Grif returns to wolfing down his food, as usual putting the fruit aside. Just before he finishes, one of the guards approaches the table. It’s Sherry, who fixes Caboose with a look and gestures at him.

“Hey, you. Big, dumb one. You got a visitor and they won’t stop asking questions about when you’ll get there.”

“Nope,” Caboose said, not looking up.

“Uh, yeah, actually. He won’t shut up, and he’s got that horrible desperate quality that all mid-life crisis guys have. Major drag. So if you could just go up there so that I don’t have to deal with it--”

“There is no visitor. Whoever it is, they are very confused and should not be here,” Caboose muttered. “I do not get visitors.”

“Would you just--” Sherry started irritably, reaching out to grab his arm. Grif didn’t move, although he fully expected a broken bone in response. He knew Church did, too, because Church immediately sat up straighter and put out his hand.

“Let him finish his breakfast, lady,” Church said, although his sight was more on Caboose. “He’ll go up there when he’s ready.” 

“No,” Caboose said stubbornly.

“Caboose, shut up, I’m just trying to get her off your back,” Church whispered.

“Still here, Church. Still here,” Sherry complained. 

She tried to tug Caboose to his feet, but Caboose just simply refused to budge. It was like trying to move the foundations of the prison itself. Sherry huffed, let go of his arm and tossed her arms in the air.

“Whatever. Just go up there and tell him you don’t want to see him. Sick of sorting through all these family dramas.” She left, muttering under her breath.

Church watched her leave, then went back to rubbing his forehead. Caboose continued to pay attention to his food instead. Grif watched him for a moment, then put his spoon down.

“What the fuck was that about?”

“They are very confused,” Caboose muttered.

Church, looking up from his hand, gestured at Grif to quiet the fuck down. Grif, however, took this as an invitation to do the opposite.

“You got family that gives a shit enough to visit, and you won’t even see them? The fuck did they do? You don’t get visitors for seventeen years, and now you’re not even a little curious?”

Grif couldn’t help but let that bitter taste flood his senses again. He’d give so much to see Sister or Speedboat, and Caboose had the chance to possibly see family and wasn’t taking it.

Caboose frowned, looking at his cereal. After some consideration, he looked at Grif and smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes at all.

“If you think visitors are so good, then maybe you should go and talk to the person who is lost in the visitor time room. Maybe you can both be jerks together.” At which point, he scooped his cereal back into the bowl, picked up both it and his juice box, and stomped off. He did not go in the direction of the visitor’s room.

Church lowered his hand a little to watch him leave, then looked over at Grif.

“Nice job, asshole. Don’t think I’ve seen Caboose flounce off like that in a decade. Thought the cereal bowl might end up dumped over your head.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Just because you like your sister, doesn’t mean we all have to like our families. If my dad visited I sure wouldn’t want to see him, even aside from the fact that I murdered him. Even if it was someone he liked… shit’s complicated, dude.”

“I don’t see why it has to be.”

“Yeah? You talk to your parents much?”

Grif had to consider that for a moment. If his mother ever turned up, would he go see her? Fuck, of course he would. If only to ask why she’d never come back. Same with his father, whoever the fuck he was.

“Ain’t my choice on whether I get to or not.”

“Well, family shit can be complicated. Even without… Look, just keep your fucking nose out of it.” Church returned to massaging his forehead with one of his knuckles. “Besides, being nosy means you’re also being noisy.”

“Knew there had to be a selfish reason behind it somewhere.”

 

* * *

South had never really needed to deal with guilt before.

She knew this wasn’t the first time she’d contributed to Wash landing in a bad place. It was the first time that she’d had to watch the aftermath. Shooting him didn’t really count. There’d been too much adrenaline. It had happened too fast.

There was a significant difference between watching someone bleed, then seeing them years later in relatively good condition, than seeing Wash looking all... fractured like that. Bizarre that she’d feel guilty this time. Last time she’d directly shot him, this time it was only vaguely her fault. It likely would have happened even if she hadn’t given Felix that knife.

Maybe she was just feeling like shit because she was still helping the little prick.

As she considered her dumb emotions, she stopped by a door that led into the visitor’s room. Specifically, it led into the side that the visitors congregated in. It was always locked, except when guards went through it.

South unlocked it casually. As she’d been warned, there were two visitors rather close to it. A determined-looking woman and a man clearly filled with regret. South didn’t say a word. The moment she opened the door, the two just walked past her. The woman gave her a quick, curious look.

“...Why is it always blondes that are helping him?” the woman muttered, more to herself than to South. Then she gave a quick nod, and both strangers vanished down the corridors into the prison.

God, South didn’t even want to know why Felix needed this done. At the very least, she could claim plausible deniability if this ended up getting someone injured too.

Yeah. Wasn’t her fault. She was just doing what she had to do.

 

* * *

Donut had a rule when talking to his mothers. He didn’t mention anything that would worry them.

That meant a lot of what happened in prison was out. He’d never told them about his distrust of the guards or discussed any of his infirmary visits. He didn’t tell them about the creeps like O’Malley—whatever the opposite of ‘god bless his soul’ was—or Sharkface. He certainly didn’t tell them about deaths occurring where only guards could perpetrate them.

Still, Donut was really good at babbling. About art classes that Doc had run, or about negotiating prices for clean laundry. Or random topics that he and Caboose had discussed.

"—and then we had this long discussion about which of the Disney princesses were better. Which no-one really won because I'm not exactly sure what Caboose was talking about because he seemed to think there was a princess who was dressed like a cowboy. And then I got distracted because I started thinking about cowboys. So what’s been happening with you?"

This was a rare occasion--although becoming less rare now that Mama Julie, at least, was winding down to less work days as she neared retirement age--where both his mothers had made the trip to see him. Most of the responses to Donut’s extensive ramble had been made by Mama Liz, who had often chipped in with her own opinions on Disney princesses or with approvement regarding the art classes. Mama Julie had mostly remained quiet, nodding a little but otherwise watching him and Liz chatter.

“Nothing much,” Mama Julie said quietly.

“Nothing much?! What about that dispute with Mr. Hoover? You remember Mr. Hoover, crumbcake? Next door neighbor?”

“Yes,” Donut lied, while trying to remember who the hell that was and which side of the house they’d lived on.

“His stupid tree is growing over the edges of the fence and he won’t trim it. Also won’t let us take any of the fruit off it. So mostly birds just eat from the tree, shit all over our side and we get all of the annoyances but none of the perks.”

“You did call him a racist crackpot to his face while we were discussing this,” Mama Julie muttered.

“He was a racist crackpot!”

“Yes, but you could have told him once the tree was trimmed back.”

The two of them started to squabble lightly over this (honesty vs. temporary pragmatism), Donut’s attention briefly wandered as he still tried to remember who this was. A frown creased his face as he saw Sharkface pass by him, heading towards where a woman with short, greying brown hair sat. His mother, maybe? They didn’t look related, but Donut knew better than anyone how little that meant. 

But soon his attention moved beyond that to a figure lounging in the corner of the visitor’s side. A very familiar figure. It took him a moment to realise he’d never seen this man before in his life. He was unsure of the man’s age, as he still looked fairly young. But the lines he was built along, the hair, the freckles… He knew a resemblance wasn’t everything, but this man was Caboose’s splitting image. Older, perhaps, and different eyes. That was all.

Mama Liz noticed Donut’s attention drifting and looked over her shoulder towards the man, then pulled a face and turned back. “Eugh, crumbcake, just because your options in prison are slim doesn’t mean you have to ogle any man you see.”

“Motherrrr. I’m not sixteen, I don’t ogle ‘every guy.’ And it’s a male prison, I’m not really short on staring options.” Donut nodded his head towards the man. “Besides, he’s not that ugly, is he?”

“Appearance-wise, meh. Personality-wise? Trash. He’s been here for hours hitting on anyone without a Y-chromosone,” Mama Liz complained. “He apparently did not take the hint when I introduced Ju-Ju as my wife.”

“Said it was a perk,” Mama Julie grumbled.

“Oh. Wow, that’s gross.” Still, Donut looked at the man for a moment longer, frowning a bit. His curiosity won out. “Hey, um… sorry about this, and I promise I’m not shunning your presence or hitting on anyone… but I need to talk to him. Would you mind, uh…?”

Mama Julie raised her eyebrows while Mama Liz frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s for a friend.”

Soon, the man was seated in front of Donut, looking very confused.

“Uh… yeah?” he asked, blinking at Donut.

“You’re here to see Caboose, right?”

The man's face lit up immediately and he leaned forward. The resemblance to Caboose was all the more apparent as he smiled.

“Oh, you know Michael? Yeah. I’m his dad. You seen him around? Can you get him to come out here? I’ve asked the guards, but that one with the cherry-top hair--” He gestured at Sherry and her dyed pixie cut. “She keeps shrugging at me and telling me that maybe I should deal with my mid-life crisis somewhere else. Which is such bullshit. Do I look like I’m in a crisis? Anyway, could you get him?”

Donut watched Caboose’s dad, still trying to get over the weirdness that was someone calling Caboose ‘Michael.’ Then he leaned back on his chair, squinting at the man.

“I could probably try,” Donut said doubtfully. “But he didn’t seem interested.”

“Ughh. Is he still mad at me? It's been almost twenty years! God, that kid sure can hold a grudge. Gets that from his mother. You dump a woman for being too serious and they never let it go." He scowled and crossed his arms. "I don't even know why he was mad to begin with. All I did was peek a bit at his scars. Uh... so who are you?"

“Oh. Sorry, uh… I’m Donut. I’m Caboose’s BFF.”

This time it was the father’s turn to lean back in his chair and fix Donut with a suspicious stare. Several moments passed.

“...Are you banging my son?” he finally asked.

“No.”

“Because so help me, if you have made him your prison bitch—"

“Okay, first of all,” Donut interrupted, pointing at him. “No. Caboose and I share a blanket fort, cuddle and that’s it. And second, if we were banging it would not be a prison bitch situation. It’d be, you know, loving and mutual and ideally have some scented candles. I don’t do prison bitches or sex-as-a-reward or anything like that.”

"Alright, ease up on the jibber jabber. Can you just go and get him?”

Donut leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “Can I ask you a question first?”

“I mean… I just would prefer to talk to--”

“Well, actually, it’s two questions,” Donut interrupted, ignoring the man’s reluctance. “First of all… you really want to talk to Caboose? After he killed his mother?”

“We were never married. Barely knew her,” Caboose’s father said dismissively. “I mean, sure. I’m not ecstatic that Michael murdered anyone, let alone his mother, a stripper and two cops. But… we all make mistakes, right?”

Donut rested his face in his hands for a moment before saying, “His mother, though!”

“Look, I’ve had tons of girlfriends in the past. They’re a dime a dozen. This is my son we’re talking about. My only son. As far as I know, anyway. I tried checking with old girlfriends but I can't remember all of their names."

“Then my second question. Why now? Why not seventeen years ago?”

Caboose’s father stayed silent for a while before saying, “I just do. That’s all. And why do you get to be the gatekeeper on whether or not I can see him?”

“Because he’s not coming up here on his own,” Donut said sternly. “I want to know why he doesn’t want to see you.”

"Why wouldn't he want to see me? I'm his dad!” Caboose’s father said, sounding scandalized. “He’s probably just shy. He was always quiet.”

Donut had the odd sense that they were talking about two different people. But more than that, he just did not like this man. Whether it was because he disapproved of whoever his mothers did, or because of the callous attitude he had regarding Caboose murdering his mother. Donut was tempted to give it up as a bad cause.

The only thing that made Donut agree was seeing his mothers sitting in the corner, watching. Thinking how happy he was whenever they visited. Donut sighed.

“Let me finish talking to my parents. Then I’ll talk to him. But I can’t promise anything beyond that.”

“Thanks. Y’not so bad for a fruity twunk sort of guy.”

“...What the hell is a twunk?”

 

* * *

“Dylan Andrews, Intercity Daily. What are your feelings on the murder of an inmate in guard-restricted areas?”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold on.” Church held out a hand to stop Dylan from talking further, then pulled back his sleeve. There were notes written all down his wrist in scrawled pen. He slid his finger down that list, muttering to himself. After a moment, he sighed with relief and looked back up. “You mean O’Malley, right? No-one else has died since?”

“...Not that I know of?”

“Should you even be here? You know you’re sneaking around a prison, right? Half the dudes here haven’t seen a non-staff woman in years, and some of them are creepy trash. I mean, you just walked up to me. I could have a shiv on me. I don’t… but I could have. And you wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”

“I know you enough to know it could have been dangerous. Leonard L. Church, right? Arrested twenty-five years ago for rampant smuggling, the murder of five people--one of whom was your six-year-old brother--and suspected others. I’ve done my fair share of research, and you were reasonably notable.”

“...Huh,” Church said slowly, looking mildly impressed despite himself. “Thought that would have been history by now.”

“Well, I aim to uncover the present, and sometimes the past helps. Anyway, danger is often necessary to get the facts.”

“Alright, so you’re just insane.”

“Can you answer the question?”

“No, I cannot. I’m not stupid. You’ll cite me as a source in your weird report--”

“I can keep it anonymous--”

“--and then that’ll piss the guards off worse and, well… we know what pissed guards do. So, officially, no. I didn’t say shit. Won’t say shit. Besides, I don’t snitch anymore. I’ve moved on to greener pastures.”

 

* * *

Felix doesn’t get a visitor. But he does get a phone call.

“I cannot believe you.” Felix’s tone is overdramatic, and despite the lack of a physical audience he presses the back of his hand to his forehead like he’s about to faint from how upset he is. “I thought you’d forgotten about me! You, my own father--”

On the other end, Siris let loose an irritated sigh. “Gates…”

“What? It’s been like three months.”

“I already regret calling you,” Siris said. “You’re disowned.”

Felix leaned against the phone box, grinning. “Aw, don’t talk like that. Miss me yet?”

“Miss is a bit strong. Your absence is obvious would be more... honest.”

“I’ll take it. I really am super noticeable. How’s Megan? You knock her up yet?”

There was a click as Siris hung up on him. Felix rolled his eyes and put the phone down. Then he crossed his arms and waited for Siris to call back, as he inevitably knew he would.

“It was just a question,” Felix said once the phone rang again, picking up immediately.

There’s a light sigh before Siris says, “Look, I’ve heard about what’s been happening in there. Just because you haven’t told me anything--”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Apparently you’ve been walking around with burns or a brand or something?”

“Awww, who told you? Did South notice and pass it on? No, she’s not that concerned about my well-being. Seriously, who told you?”

“Are you okay?”

“Not even a little.” Felix let out a mock, exaggerated sigh. “My hand is in soooo much pain. Seriously, you can’t even understand the pain that I’m experiencing in this limb.”

He couldn’t hear Siris, but he could practically see the look Siris would be giving him if they were in the same room.

“Can’t even, Mace,” Felix repeated.

“Uh huh, sure. But are you still in danger? Do you need to be pulled out of there?”

“Fuck no. Can’t stop me.”

He heard Siris snort on the other end, then there was silence for a few moments. When he spoke again, his tone was a little awkward.

“How’s… how’s Samuel?”

Ugh, always with the cricket. Felix shifted his weight as he continued to lean against the phone box, staring down the corridor as if Locus would jump out now that someone was talking about him.

“An emotionally constipated douche, as usual. He’s getting in cozy with all the other assholes. But I’m not a messenger. Just fucking ask him.”

“You know he won’t talk to me if it’s not mission-related.”

“Then pretend it is mission-related. ‘Hey, Locus, I need to know your emotional state for the good of the mission in case you go batshit crazy and start hitting people in the face with your belt buckle again,’” Felix said. “Easy.”

There was a long exhale from Siris. “Nevermind.” He hesitated before continuing. “Gates. ...Be careful, alright?”

Felix snorted, grinning. “Getting emotional?”

“You might be a dick… and Sam--Locus--might not be the guy I once knew. But I want you to come out of there safe. That’s all.”

“Aww,” Felix cooed sarcastically.

“Nevermind. Get shivved.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

 

* * *

“Dylan Andrews, Intercity Daily. What are your feelings on the murder of an inmate in guard-restricted areas?”

Caboose blinked at her slowly from his blanket fort and didn’t say anything as Dylan held the voice recorder out to him. Behind her shoulder, Frank was holding the phone out as a camera. After some consideration, Dylan rephrased her question.

“A guy died in the shoe. Do you consider that fucked up?”

“Oh. Yes, it is scary,” Caboose said, nodding. “The guards can be mean. But if we are very quiet, eventually they will stop being mean.”

“So, they’re keeping you in line with intimidation at lethal levels?”

“...They are scary and I might die if I try to be scary?”

“Close enough.”

“Excuse me?” A guard had appeared nearby, staring at the two of them with utter confusion. His uniform had an ID with the name ‘Stassney’ on it. “Who’re you? ...I don’t think y’sposed to be in here--”

Dylan didn’t waste a second. She just grabbed Frank, spun around and thrust him into Stassney’s arms. Without even bothering with an apology--it hadn’t been the first time she’d hurled Frank into pursuers--she bolted.

“Hey! Come back! I don’t wanna run!” Stassney yelled after her. He huffed quietly afterwards before looking at Frank, who looked beleaguered and resigned. “...Hey, I know you. You were doing the filming at that UFO convention.”

“My boss doesn’t pay me enough to cover all the fines I get working with her,” Frank muttered.

“That’s the worst. I’ll let go of you and escort you out with no fines if you give me the tapes from that convention, I can’t find them anywhere.”

“...Deal.”

 

* * *

As Donut headed back for his cell, considering his words, a woman ran smack into him.

“Sorry about that,” she said briskly. Then she looked at him for a moment and held out her voice recorder. “Dylan Andrews, Intercity Daily. How do you feel about--”

There was a loud, huffy yell from further back and she quickly glanced over her shoulder before giving Donut a pat on the shoulder.

“We’ll talk another time.” Then she sprinted off. Donut was left staring after her, the most confused he’d been in recent weeks, when Stassney turned up while lugging a stranger behind him.

“Did she go this way? Are you snitching to the press? I know the prison code,” Stassney said, squinting accusingly at Donut. “You’re not supposed to tell people things, I heard that from a credible source.”

“I… have no idea what’s happening.”

“Righhht.” Stassney pointed at his eyes, then at Donut, before dragging the man lightly along. Donut heard a few words about tapes before they left.

“...What the fuck,” Donut muttered under his breath before moving on.

Caboose was in the blanket fort. He beamed once he saw Donut.

“I met a new person! She was much nicer than the guard ladies,” Caboose said cheerfully.

“Yeah, I think I met her just then? How’d the press get in here?”

“I do not know. I am not an ironing board.”

“What? Nevermind, I gotta talk to you about something.” Donut sat down inside the blanket fort, and Caboose scooted over to make room. “I met your dad.”

Caboose didn’t immediately respond. When he did it was a calm, “No, you did not meet my dad.”

“No, I did. He… really looks a lot like you, so--”

“That does not make him my dad,” Caboose muttered.

“Well, I… I said I’d talk to you for him. At least tell you he was there, so you definitely knew it wasn’t a mistake.”

Caboose frowned, picking at a hole inside the blanket. Donut curled his legs up to his chest, watching.

“Can I ask why you don’t want to see him? You’re not even a little curious after seventeen years of nothing?”

“You sound like Gruf,” Caboose grumbled.

“Huh. Not something people say about me a lot,” Donut mused.

“I am not curious. I do not want to look. I want him to go away,” Caboose said. His voice was getting irritated. “Why do you and Gruf want me to see him? Why are you saying that I have to?”

“I didn’t mean to say that! I was just… I mean, he did seem like a bit of a jerk but--”

“I do not want to see him and I do not want to talk about it any more,” Caboose said stubbornly.

“Okay, okay! I’ll drop it!” 

Donut quickly shuffled away from Caboose, clambering off the bed and hurrying out of the cell. After a few moments, he stuck his head back in.

“Not even a little curi--”

“Donut!” Caboose snapped.

“Alright, alright!”

 

* * *

 

 

As much as he wanted to see Connie, C.T was stressing out a lot about her showing up here. It wasn’t the first time. He knew that, since Sharkface had been here a few months longer than he had. But the idea of Connie being in the same building as Flowers again made him nervous. Logically, Flowers wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. But Flowers didn’t always operate on logic.

He got the occasional peek into the visitor’s room as people entered and left. He could see Connie chatting with Sharkface. It was odd to watch, because Connie hadn’t been that close to Sharkface when they’d still been together on the outside. She’d mostly tolerated him as an extension of C.T. She’d only taken over the adoption once C.T had been arrested.

He wondered what they talked about. Did Connie listen to the hour-long talks about sharks like he had? Or about whatever interest Sharkface was thinking about that day? (The sharks were easy enough to understand, stuff like Chinese literature got a bit harder to follow.) 

He wasn’t alone outside of the visitor’s room. Tucker was nearby. C.T hadn’t said a word, so he didn’t think Tucker knew he was here. Tucker was pacing, muttering under his breath. C.T recognised that it was meant to be Sangheili, although it was mangled largely to the point of incomprehension. C.T scowled, then returned his attention to the visitor’s room.

Eventually, the door opened. He saw Sharkface get up, tap his fist against the bulletproof glass while Connie did the same, and head towards him with a grin. He nodded at C.T before his gaze landed on Tucker. That grin got wider, and he approached before tapping Tucker on the back of the head.

“Boo.”

“Gaah! Fuck!” Tucker yelled, jumping back. Sharkface let out a snort before leaving, and C.T had to stifle laughing as Tucker slid closer to the wall, looking thoroughly frazzled now. Mood boosted a little--enough to quiet his nerves, at least--he headed inside.

He quickly glanced around. He didn’t see Flowers on either side of the glass.

Connie had her chin propped on her hand when he sat down in front of her. She squinted at him for a moment.

“Less bruised than I expected,” she said after some examination.

“How much did you expect?”

“Given that it’s you and Florida? In an enclosed space? I’m amazed you’re not wearing a necklace of his teeth or something.”

“I’m not a howling barbarian, Connie.”

“You have literally wielded an axe in a fight.”

“Technically it was a tomahawk. But touche.” C.T propped his chin on his hand, mirroring Connie’s position. “Is it going well out there?”

“About the same as every other time you’ve asked. Bar’s still running, everyone’s just old and tired. Taught Smith how to use a modern computer so he’ll stop going googly eyes over every piece of thirty-year-old technology he finds in a specialty store. Hasn’t worked so…”

Connie trailed off, looking to the side at the visitor who’d just walked in. A young man with obvious Sangheili heritage (the blue-tinted hair and sharp teeth was always a giveaway) who made his way towards the screens. Not long after, Tucker headed towards him, briefly guided by a guard so he’d find the right window.

“...Jesus christ,” Connie muttered, eyes lingering on the bandana that Tucker perpetually wore around his eyes. 

C.T rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. “He had it coming to him.”

“Did you cut his eyes out?”

“As fun as that sounds, no. He had that when I got here. I haven’t touched him, I swear. He’s just blind and sounds like he’s breathing through a machine at times, it’s so fucking rattled.”

“Wow. That’s depressing.” Connie watched as Tucker sat down in front of Junior, a somewhat distracted grin appearing on his face as he did so. Then she turned back to C.T and lowered her voice. “Is that going to be enough for you?”

“I’m trying not to be too unnecessary with the violence, okay?” When Connie said nothing, C.T sighed and leaned back on his chair. “For real. Me and Florida have only really fought one and a half times, and the one time was verbally agreed on. Haven’t touched Tucker, even told Sharkface not to go near him.”

“That’s not going to work.”

“I know. But I at least tried exerting some fatherly authority, so it basically counts. I have been the picture of good behavior,” C.T said primly.

“Yeahhh… well. Forgive me if I’m a little doubtful,” Connie muttered. 

“I know, I know.” It was doubts over his behaviour that had led to their break up in the first place. Although they’d remained on friendly terms since then, they didn’t have the same level of trust as they’d once had. C.T didn’t hold a grudge for it. He knew Connie was just… they were different in ways that had eventually become irreconcilable. “You’re not being bothered by any of the Director’s people or anything? I’ve had a bit of a tangle with one in here.”

“None of them have bothered me. As far as they know, I just run a bar.”

“Thank god their intelligence and researching is shit.”

 

* * *

Kimball blinked at her office chair, then looked at Doyle. “Why is there a stranger in my chair?”

“She won’t leave and I’m too busy and afraid to go find a guard,” Doyle said, not looking up from his paperwork.

Kimball rolled her eyes before looking back to Dylan, who was spinning slightly in her chair with the voice recorder at the ready.

“Dylan Andrews. Intercity Daily.”

“Oh, you’re the reporter. The guards are looking for you,” Kimball said. She gestured away from her chair. “Off. You better not have been snooping through my paperwork.”

“She tried,” Doyle piped up.

“Guess we’ve found the one benefit of sharing an office, then.”

“I thought that you’d be best suited to give me a general view of how the prison is doing in the aftermath of the murder investigation.”

“Well… maybe,” Kimball said slowly. “But that’s under confidentiality. None of them’ll trust me enough to tell me anything else if I tell the first reporter I meet.”

“True.” Dylan climbed out of her chair, waiting for Kimball to sit down. However, Kimball didn’t immediately do so. She gazed at Dylan, equal parts suspicion and a wary curiosity.

“What exactly do you want?” she finally asked.

“The truth.”

“But why? Why this truth? I’ve seen your papers. Your articles. I’ve seen you cover crimes, but never prisons. It’s not really exciting enough for your style of article.”

“Your articles are really more… razzle dazzle,” Doyle added, looking up from his paperwork. “Massive corruptions. Grand, sweeping issues. Generally about active crime and justice rather than incarceration. I don’t imagine the story of an old man dying in a small cell will sell many papers.”

“First of all, he was an old serial killer. The public is marginally more interested in that,” Dylan said. “But… no, it won’t sell as many papers as it would if, say, he was young and still actively murdering on the streets.”

Kimball finally sat down in her chair, still eying Dylan. “So why?”

“Because no-one will look into the facts if I don’t. I want facts, because truth and facts are the currency of the world. They can build people up and tear them down. And… and you’re right. No-one wants to look into this until it becomes something dramatic that the public can eat up. But by the time that happens… well, drama in a place like this means blood. I need the facts before they’re bloody.”

“All you’re doing is stirring the pot further,” Doyle said, frowning at her.

Kimball said nothing. She looked at Dylan, then looked sideways at Doyle. Doyle looked back, then shook his head minutely. But Kimball turned back.

“My advice? Right now, the best place you can go is to the morgue.”

“...Sounds a little threatening.”

“Not like that. We heard that O’Malley’s body was going to be looked over. So they could confirm the cause of death. Perhaps find a link to whoever did it. But that report has been a long time coming so far. Maybe you should check to see if they’ve forgotten about it, and check what the hold up is.”

“I’m sure there’s something in our contracts that says we can’t say that,” Doyle muttered.

“I’ll consider it,” Dylan said.

“Good.” Kimball stood up again, then paced over to open the door to her office. “I texted Flowers that you were up here. Hope you don’t mind.”

“So did I,” Doyle admitted.

Flowers was standing in the doorway, smiling pleasantly. He held out a hand to shake Dylan’s. “Ms. Andrews, isn’t it? Quite a fan of the Daily. Remarkably well-researched in your section. I particularly enjoyed that one about the string of arsons a few months back.”

Dylan eyed the hand before shaking it, nodding slightly. “Glad you enjoyed it. I lost most of my hair researching those. The flames almost frizzled it to the scalp.”

“That’s a darn shame,” Flowers said, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I like what you’ve done with it since, though. Lovely cut. Your cameraman was already escorted out. I... suspect you knew that. We’ve since contacted Mr. Trebka.”

“Oh. That’s… great,” Dylan sighed. She knew that her boss would have an earful for her.

“If you come along now--and if we can chat about some of your older articles on the way--I won’t call the police and have you arrested for trespassing in a federal prison,” Flowers continued cheerfully.

“...That sounds fair.”

 

* * *

Doc only found out that Wash was back halfway through the morning, when he was getting a cup of herbal tea and heard it in passing from two of the other guards discussing it. His first instinct had been to run around the prison like a lunatic, searching for him just to make sure he was fine. But he hadn’t done so, instead just going back to his office.

It had been very difficult to focus on his work after that. He was guilty of absently nodding through portions of the therapy sessions he was running that morning. He’d been chugging herbal tea like it was liquor, repeatedly wandering back to the breakroom for more. Made his mouth taste oversaturated with camomile, but he kept doing it.

He wanted to find Wash. But he was afraid. He was sure Wash would figure him out, just as York had. If he didn’t know already. And as much as he hated it, O’Malley’s words kept echoing in his head. ‘How else will Washington get his revenge? Do you really want to take away his one purpose?’ Well, he’d taken that now, at least where O’Malley was concerned. And before he’d done it, he hadn’t thought much of it. But now he knew revenge more intimately. Now he understood.

He didn’t know if Wash would forgive him, or if he even wanted to be. Both had issues.

He didn’t have to go looking for Wash in the end. As lunch occured, and Doc drank what felt like his hundredth cup of camomile, the door opened. Freckles stuck his head through first, sniffing at the floor before pulling himself in. Wash was holding the leash, but seemed to be reluctant to step through the door.

“Just go, Wash. You’re just going to look ridiculous if you stand there forever.” That was York, who was holding C.C’s leash. He looked over at Doc, who was watching back like a deer in headlights, before frowning a little and turning away. To Wash he said, “I’ll be outside. Don’t try to sneak by me.”

After which he gave Wash a quick, light shove inside the office and closed the door.

Doc examined Wash for a moment, frowning at the obvious malnourishment, before he started to rummage around for his lunch. He found his sandwich and pushed it across his desk, gesturing at Wash to sit down in the seat across from him.

“Haven’t eaten lunch, have you?”

“I’ll… I have lunch, I… it’s in the breakroom, just haven’t…” Wash spoke quietly and with a lot of disconnection.

“Wash,” Doc said sternly, nudging the sandwich forward.

Wash looked at him for a moment. Doc expected either a brisk rebuke or Wash to cave, as was usually the case when Doc had to pester Wash into doing something. Normally it was sleep rather than food. Instead, Wash turned and pressed his face into his hands for a moment.

“Why’re you always…” Wash muttered under his breath. Without finishing the thought, he remained like that. Mumbled something inaudible before lowering his hands. He paced, hands clenching and unclenching, before heading abruptly to the chair Doc had indicated to like he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t right now.

Doc looked down as Wash sat, pretending to look at his paperwork as he drank more. Trying to act calm, but positive that Wash would know. How could he not hear Doc’s heart thumping? How could he not see guilt scrawled all over Doc’s face? Even besides that, York had probably told him. York was a bad liar.

“I need to talk to you,” Wash said slowly. He was ignoring the sandwich, hands still clenching and unclenching.

“Do you want to move to the sofa?” Doc asked.

“No, it… it isn’t… it’s not a therapy thing, it…” Wash looked at the table for a moment, then he gazed at Doc’s face. “You didn’t tell me.”

Doc frowned, clasping his hands around the mug of tea. “I haven’t seen you since. There wasn’t any time.”

“No time? How is… ten years is a lot, Doc.”

...Oh.

“You mean about O’Malley?” Doc asked.

“You didn’t… say. You just… I know I didn’t listen. I know I could have… have seen. If I looked properly. But why didn’t you…”

“Wash, it’s done. Okay? O’Malley’s… he’s gone now. There’s no use talking about it,” Doc said.

“No, that’s not… that’s not what you’ve said. That’s…” Wash stopped, expression strained like he was trying to move the desk with his mind. He shut his eyes, lips moving silently, before opening them again. “Doc, this is going to sound really selfish… but I need to get through this. Don’t interrupt me for… for just a bit. Okay?”

“Sure, you can always ask for--”

“Stop. Sorry. Before I lose the thread,” Wash interrupted. He pressed his fingers tightly into the table for a minute, frowning, before taking a deep breath. “Okay. I… look. I fucked you over. Plain as that. I… I dragged you back here. To him. For my own… stupid asshole reasons. I could have seen it, and in hindsight… god, it’s so obvious.”

“It’s fine--”

“No, it’s not! And… sorry, please, hold on,” Wash’s grip tightened on the desk. Loosened. “I tried to figure out… figure out how I could fix it. Help you. But can’t. Whoever killed O’Malley, they beat me to it.”

Doc tilted his head a little, eyes squinted. He opened his mouth slowly, but Wash quickly interrupted him before he could say anything.

“And I know, I... I... know you don’t approve of murder. I know you’re just too… too fucking forgiving for it. You’re you,” Wash mumbled, eyes flicking up to look at Doc for a moment. “I know, but… I couldn’t think of another way. It was all I had, I… I’m not like you, Doc. I can’t… I can’t forgive like you do.”

...He didn’t know. How didn’t he know? 

Doc quickly looked down, going pale. Now they were both more focused on the desk than each other, like it was a third participant in this conversation.

“It… it... it doesn’t matter what intent I had,” Wash continued. “So I… I can’t fix what I did. Couldn’t have even if I had gone ahead with strangling that… that…”

Wash’s hands clenched tighter, knuckles white. But then he unclenched them, spreading the fingers out. Then he stretched them out across Doc’s desk. Didn’t touch. Just put them forward. Doc raised his head a little to stare at the hands, confused.

“I can’t fix it. I… guess all I can do is… what you did for me,” Wash said quietly. “I can… I can listen, if you want to talk about it. I know it… it won’t fix it. But if it’ll help… even a little...” He trailed off, swallowing nervously before watching Doc.

Doc looked back down. Mouth pressed tight as his eyes flickered nervously to the side, not able to keep contact with those pale eyes. He considered the idea. Of detailing fifteen years of abuse out loud.

Then, slowly, he reached out one hand and lightly clasped one of Wash’s hands. When he made sure that Wash wasn’t going to yank his hands back, he clasped a little tighter before reaching out with the other hand and patting the top of Wash’s hand. There was a quick wave of revulsion at the touch, but it receded just as fast.

Doc gave Wash a small, subdued smile. The tone he used was rather like the tone an adult would use trying to explain why a divorce wasn’t a child’s fault.

“Wash… it’s… nice of you to be concerned. I… appreciate the thought. But... “ His eyes flickered downwards again for a moment. “There’s really nothing to forgive. And there’s really nothing to talk about.”

He pulled his hands back, returning instead to clasping his mug of herbal tea. He kept his eyes down.

“...Okay,” Wash said quietly. “I’ll, uh…” He tailed off, gesturing vaguely at the door, before getting up quick enough that he almost knocked over his chair. 

“You don’t have to g--” Doc started.

Too late. Wash was already out of the room. 


	17. Chapter Fourteen: Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker confides in Donut. C.T and Flowers compromise on their jobs. The Lopezes discuss the difficulties of being seemingly the only Spanish speakers in the prison. Church sees Wash having a minor struggle. Grif apologizes. Felix comes up with a better method of payment. And Delta considers his options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's late. I'll try not to be with the next one. I will probably fail, but I will try. I got a job recently, but shifts are still sparse, so it shouldn't affect things much? Tbh this one isn't even as ready as it should be either, but I needed to get something out there.

Donut usually walked with Caboose to the cafeteria in the morning. However, that morning Caboose had mumbled something about fluffing pillows and how ‘it would take until Donut left’ to do.

When he got to the cafeteria, he found that he’d beaten most of the others there. The only one already there was Tucker, who was prodding moodily at his cereal and not eating it. Donut alerted Tucker to his presence by giving him a light smack on the back.

“What’s got you grumpy?” Donut asked, plopping down in his usual seat.

Unusually, Tucker did not respond to that with a snarky or snide remark. He remained quiet, prodding at his cereal. Donut frowned, pushing his own food aside before leaning forward.

“You alright? Things not go well with Junior?”

“No, they went as good as they usually do. I mean… I don’t really have anything to say to him—I’m just thiiiis close to figuring out how to speak Sangheili, I swear,” Tucker said, holding his thumb and forefinger close together. “I mean… it’s like… there’s not really much I can tell him about the prison experience.”

“I get that. Trying to avoid mentioning the murders and the rapists is a little tricky,” Donut admitted.

“Oh yeah, shit, by the way, is Sharkface nearby?” Tucker asked, straightening up and looking tense.

Donut glanced around. “...Not close-by, he’s sitting with Robo-Arm on the other side of the room.” He turned back, dragged his cereal bowl closer and shifted into the seat normally occupied by Church. “If your visit went normal, why you so glum this time?”

Tucker didn’t respond for a bit. When he did, he asked, “Is there anyone else at the table?”

“Not yet.” Donut looked over his shoulder at the cafeteria line. “I can see Grif in line, but he won’t be here for--”

“I’m afraid of parole.”

Tucker blurted this out quickly, like he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t. Donut turned back to Tucker, giving him a stunned look.

“...What?”

“Dude. Look at me.” Tucker gestured at his face. “I can’t see. I can barely breathe. I’ve been in here since I was twenty-five. That’s… I barely remember what freedom is like. And out there I’m not gonna have anyone but my kid, and… I can’t exactly camp in his dorm room, you know? Donut... what the fuck am I supposed to do out there?”

Donut didn’t respond immediately, now staring down at his own cereal bowl. He tried to visualize seeing Tucker in the outside world, and found the specifics of said world slipped his mind a little too. He couldn’t picture Tucker wearing anything but orange.

“What’s brought this on? You were excited a month ago,” Donut said.

“Yeah, but… guess I’ve been thinking about it seriously. It’s not that I don’t want to be free, because I do. I just… I’ve been so focused on getting to freedom that I don’t know what I’m going to do with it once I get it.”

“What’d you do beforehand?”

“Crime,” Tucker said bluntly.

“Well, I walked right into that one,” Donut said as he pushed his food away once more and crossed his arms, resting his face on them. “I… I dunno. You tried talking to Church or… I mean, look, I’ll try to help. We’re just not exactly bosom buddies.”

“And you using the phrase ‘bosom buddies’ is a big part of why,” Tucker grumbled, although he grinned a little as he said it. The grin soon faded into a somber, thoughtful expression. “Look, I can’t talk to Church about this. I mean… he’s in here for life. How can I bitch about freedom to him?”

“That’s fair,” Donut admitted.

“Same with Caboose, even if I wanted to talk to him. Grif… honestly, I don’t feel like Grif would feel it. I think all that keeps Grif alive some days is the knowledge that he might be able to leave this dump one day. And that aside… he’s a lot sadder and drunker, but like… Grif’s still pretty similar to how he was when he came in. You, though… you’re different from when you came in here. A lot angrier, for one.”

“Hey, I am a very reasonable amount of angry,” Donut protested.

“Plus I’ve felt your guns, no homo. See, I reckon you’re doing the opposite. I was a solid criminal who’s kinda turned into a frail old man--”

“Old? Forty-five isn’t that old.”

“Dude, when you first got here you called forty ‘basically dead.’”

“Yeah, well… perspective?” Donut shrugged.

“Anyway, I turned into that and you turned into like a stone-cold badass. And that’s not really necessary for survival on the outside. Are you gonna unbadassitize--”

“Wow, that’s a word.”

“--or what? Like… what are you gonna do? Go back to what you used to do? What the fuck do you think about when you think of freedom?”

Donut frowned, still resting his chin on his folded arms. He considered it for a few moments.

“I don’t really know. I don’t think about freedom much. It kind of just makes me sad, you know?” he said after a while. “I guess I just think about the little things. Being able to watch whatever television I want, or being able to actually cook more than coffee or those little ramen packets they sell at the commissary. Not to mention being allowed to cook even those things without supervision. Of being able to have a goddamn carpet and doilies and cute little decorations. Being able to wear something that isn’t orange. Little things.”

Tucker turned his head slightly towards him. Then a grin crossed his face.

“Laaaaame.”

“Aw man, I thought we were having a bonding moment.”

“Nope. Never.”

Donut responded in a mature fashion, by flicking a spoonful of cereal at Tucker. He was soon told off by Grif, who arrived and told him to stop wasting food. That put a quick stop to the conversation.

 

* * *

 

Showering during breakfast time was always the best if one was alright with missing out on a meal, and C.T knew he could always sneak out some food later while working in the kitchen. He took his showers early, when the water was still at least lukewarm and before the drains were too clogged up with hair. It was rarely crowded—breakfast was the priority for most inmates.

So it was that C.T trotted down the corridors with a towel slung over his shoulders, heading for the showers. And so it was that he found the showers empty, save for a grumpy-looking guard who was keeping watch just in case.

C.T tossed his clothes into the corner and turned on the spray, and left the cold water entirely untouched. Despite this, as always, the water never got to more than lukewarm. C.T knew that he was probably just wasting what little warmth there was even trying… but god, he really missed hot showers. The food he could deal with. The restrictions… well, he hated the restrictions but the perpetual danger of living with other criminals tended to at least provide him with enough excitement to deal with it. But there was no replacement for a hot shower. If he ever became a free man again he’d probably end up being so excited about a proper shower that he’d scald himself to death by accident.

As he showered, scrubbing with the slightly gritty soap that made him itch but was still better than nothing, he heard a familiar voice.

“Go down to the cafeteria, they need more hands. I’ll take over here.”

Go figure that Flowers would choose a shower to ambush him in. Even so, C.T grinned to himself and otherwise pretended he hadn’t heard, even as the grumpy guard left and Flowers entered his peripheral, leaning against the wall and resuming the post.

There was brief silence. C.T pretended not to notice him, focusing on making sure his mohawk was rinsed through. He saw Flowers rest against the wall for a moment, eyes slowly scanning the area. Then he spoke.

“I didn’t expect you to procrastinate.”

“...Excuse me?” Whatever C.T had expected, it hadn’t been that. He lowered his hands from his hair, giving Flowers a perplexed look. “On what?”

Flowers smiled slightly before wiggling his fingers, the back of his hand facing C.T. “I saw that sign of your son’s handiwork.”

“Ahh. So you’re admitting Felix works for you?”

Flowers grimaced a little. “I would not refer to him as one of my men… I know he’s done odd jobs, if that’s what you’re asking. But he didn’t seem like a team player.”

“So you know nothing about it,” C.T said sarcastically. “Felix just happens to have been shifted to Locus’ cell because…?”

“Because he needs to learn to be a team player,” Flowers said brightly.

“Uh huh.” C.T went back to scrubbing at himself with soap. “And how am I procrastinating?”

“Well, we’re just dancing around each other. I have to do all the chasing. You’re looking into people you think work for the Director. But you haven’t tried to get anything out of me,” Flowers said. As he did so, he rested his chin on his hands, peering at C.T intently. Despite the inherent nudity in the situation, he was keeping his eyes squarely on C.T’s face. “I never thought of you as one to shy away from confrontation, Hawke.”

“True,” C.T grunted as he fiddled with the water tap, trying to add more heat. “Well? Are there more of the Director’s men here? Or is it just you and Rat Face?”

“I don’t know.”

“Butch, really? Really? ‘I don’t know?’”

Flowers shrugged. The look he fixed C.T was cold, despite his smile. “Despite what you might think, Hawke, I’m not exactly in the Director’s inner circle. Not to mention the problems of having one person know all the secrets regarding this prison.”

“You’re the captain of the guard. You make the most sense.”

“Perhaps the Director knew you would think that,” Flowers said.

“Oh my god, we are not doing the whole ‘or but maybe he knew you’d know he’d know you know’ back and forth,” C.T grumbled.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“And I knew you’d know. Butch, please.”

“But let’s say I do know. Perhaps I know that, oh, the warden has secretly been working for us the whole time. Or that Stassney is secretly a master spy and all his conspiracy talk is just codes. Or that Jensen is the Director’s protege and has been poisoning everyone in SHU to prove her worth. If these were true, and I knew, why would I tell you? That’s not how teamwork works.” Flowers rested an elbow on the wall and propped his cheek against his hand. He grinned wider, and this time a glimmer of warmth actually entered his eyes. “Give me something I want, Hawke, and maybe I’ll give you something you want.”

“Is this why we’re having this talk while I’m naked?”

“That’s just a delightful bonus. But no, I didn’t mean like that. Attractiveness aside, Hawke, you are an inmate. It isn’t allowed and I must be a good example.”

“I’m sure your men could use the reminder,” C.T muttered.

This caught Flowers slightly off guard, as he tilted his head with a squint. “Oh? Have you heard of them breaking this rule?”

“Is that the information you want to trade?”

Flowers considered it, rubbing his chin as he did so. After a few moments, he sighed. “As much as I want to put a stop to that, no.” The grin, however, returned to his face soon after. “How about a solid fact. Like who your people are. Putting our pieces on the table, so to speak.”

“Nope.”

“Well, now you’re just being difficult.”

“Compromise.” C.T reached over and turned the shower spray off before looking to Flowers. “The usual. We find somewhere quiet. We actually get our fight done. And whoever wins gets an answer. In this case, we’ll give one person who’s on our side. One name.”

“Deal,” Flowers said immediately. He shifts closer towards C.T, and for a moment he thinks the fight is about to happen in that very instant. But Flowers just picks up C.T’s towel and throws it to him. “Get dressed, then! The day’s still young!”

 

* * *

 

“ _How do you do it?_ ”

Lopez glanced over at Dos before focusing back on the library shelf he was browsing, looking for something on anything vaguely mechanical. He’d gone through all the books on cars, and was also occasionally grabbing one for Dos to go through if he remembered it being half-decent. “ _Do what?_ ”

“ _How have you passed ten years with everyone pretending that they know what you’re saying_? _It hasn’t even been ten weeks and I’m losing it._ ”

“ _It’s the worst,_ ” Lopez said bluntly. “ _Grif in particular is terrible._ ”

“ _He doesn’t seem any worse than the others, but--_ ”

“ _No, that’s not what makes him terrible. I’m reasonably sure he secretly knows Spanish, because I’ve walked in on him watching that one channel that has nothing but Spanish soap operas. He says he was just watching because he was bored, but he kept muttering ‘oh shit’ at really appropriate times._ ”

“ _...I really don’t know what to say to that,_ ” Dos finally said. “ _So how do you do it?_ _Is there any way to get them to listen?_ ”

“ _Oh, they don’t listen_ _even when people speak to them in English_ _._ _Spanish is impossible._ _Well, sometimes Donut does. It’s hit or miss with him. Caboose is a moron, but he picks up hand gestures pretty well if you really need to talk to him. The others? Not a chance. Bunch of idiots._ ” Lopez shook his head, although there was a wry smile on his face. Like someone thinking about a particularly stupid child that they couldn’t bring themselves to hate. “ _I’ve found fighting against it is just tiring for everyone._ ”

“ _I’m going to crack._ ”

“ _Just_ _insult them when you get too frustrated. The perk is that no-one can tell you off for it. Look.”_ Lopez looked around, saw a glimpse of movement on the other side of the bookshelf, and moved a couple of books aside to speak through the gap. “ _Hey. You._ ”

There was a pause before the inmate on the other side crouched slightly to stare through the gap at Lopez, saying nothing and waiting.

“ _You make botulism-infested pruno smell like the finest perfume,_ ” Lopez told him, keeping his voice as casual and monotone as always. “ _The only thing that smells worse is your mother._ ”

The inmate stared at him for a moment longer before saying, in fluent Spanish, “ _I can see that yours didn’t raise you to have manners._ ”

Lopez paused. Took in the size of said inmate. And immediately turned around and booked it, leaving Dos behind. The inmate rolled his eyes, returning to staring blankly at the shelves.

Dos watched Lopez go, then rounded the shelf to approach the inmate.

“ _I need to talk to someone who can speak Spanish that isn’t Lopez. Mind if I shadow you, uh… what’s your name?_ ”

“Locus.”

“ _Right. Can I?_ ”

Locus tilted his head, watching him for a moment, then shrugged. “If you want.”

“ _Cool._ ”

 

* * *

 

Church was missing some supply. He hadn’t remembered that Tex was holding the smokes that some of his customers wanted until they started bugging him about it on his way to the cafeteria. But he also didn’t know where Tex was during this time of the day. So here he was, wandering the corridors in search of her and wandering closer to the breakroom. Breakroom was a decent bet around any meal time, since it was close to shift switches. He might get chased away by other guards, but he’d at least figure out if she was there or not.

Tex was not there. Peeking his head in, the breakroom was empty except for one person who was standing by the coffee machine. It was Wash, with his back to the door as he stared inside the coffee pot.

“Dammit,” Wash muttered to himself. He moved over to the sink and tipped a pot of coffee down the sink before looking back at the machine. “Why is this so hard?”

Church did nothing except to take half a step back so he was a little further behind the doorframe before continuing to watch as Wash tried making another pot of coffee, while repeating the word ‘filter’ to himself repeatedly until he put one inside the pot. This time, he got all the way to having to press buttons on the coffee maker, at which point his hands paused, fingers hovering over the buttons. He pressed a couple of them, mouth moving, then stopped.

“Did I...” he mumbled, before rechecking the settings. Again, he pressed a couple of buttons before swearing to himself.

Church watched this for a bit. He knew that he probably would have found this hilarious a couple of months ago. ‘Ha ha, dumbass can’t make his own coffee.’ But given that he had instructions and reminders written all down his arm, right now there was a twinge of sympathy. So Church stepped inside.

This immediately got Wash’s attention. He turned around, hand jerking towards his nightstick before he stopped, giving Church a stern but frazzled stare.

“Out.”

“Yeah yeah, hold on a second,” Church said dismissively. “You’re a ‘strong coffee’ guy, right? You look like it. Always tired and shit.” He walked past Wash to the coffee maker and pressed the necessary buttons before turning it on.

“I… I know what I’m doing.”

“Didn’t ask. But if we’re talking about it, you should just write the steps on your arm. That’s what I do when I need to remember stuff.” Church showed his arm to Wash, notes written to the elbow. “Lost my notepad.”

Wash, momentarily distracted from aggression, looked down at the arm. Then he pointed to one a third of the way down. “’Get alcohol supply from Doc.’”

Oops. Church pulled his arm back quickly, tugging the sleeve back down. “That’s a typo.”

“Uh huh.” Wash looked back at the pot, then at his arm. He fiddled with the sleeve for a moment. Only pulled it an inch back, enough to catch a glimpse of faint but intricately-carved scars. Too faded to be from the recent incident. Church couldn’t see enough to make out the designs.

Man, who the fuck does that kind of scarring? Whether Wash did that to himself or someone else did, it was kind of messed up either way. Church looked back at Wash.

“I ain’t judging, by the way. Brains are stupid.”

“Very,” Wash muttered.

“Anyway, I’m gonna steal some coffee grounds as payment for my help and be on my way,” Church said, reaching over and swiping one of the pot filters.

“What? No! Get out.”

“Ahh, fine.” Church headed out of the breakroom, although he was still holding the coffee filter. Just outside, he almost bumped into another guard and briskly said, “Hey, put some instructions next to the coffee maker, would you?”

“I’m fine! Don’t need them!” Wash insisted from inside the room.

Ignoring the guard’s perplexed look, Church moved on to continue his search for Tex. What the fuck did he want with her again? Ahh, he’d remember on the way. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

Grif still had no idea what cell block Bitters and Matthews even were in. But he was bored and guilty, and that overrode his usual laziness. So he searched the only way he could: on his feet and really annoyed about it.

He stuck his head in a lot of cells, asking for help. Eventually, he stuck his head in a cell to encounter Palomo babbling full-speed at Birdie.

“Can you really shoot something from super far away? How far away? Is that why they call you Birdie? Or did you get tarred and feathered once and now you’re just living that life?” Palomo asked, kicking his feet lightly as he stared over the edge of the top bunk at Birdie, who was lounging on the bottom one and looking frustrated.

“...Who the hell gets tarred and feathered any more?”

“Hey, assholes. You know where Bitters and Matthews are? You shared with them for a bit, yeah?” Grif asked.

“They’re about half a block down that way, left side,” Birdie grunted, pointing in the relevant direction. “Ask if they want to trade cells back. I’d kill for Matthews as a cellmate compared to this idiot.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we were friends now,” Palomo complained.

Grif left the two to their chatter, heading to the indicated block and silently pitying Birdie.

He thought, at first, that the cell was empty. That Bitters and Matthews were in the yard or library or who knows what. Only so many places they could be in a prison. Impossible to avoid anyone for long. But no. They were there, albeit somewhat tangled in the sub-par sheets of one of the bunks.

Now, if Grif had walked in on Bitters and Matthews having sex, that would have been awkward. But nothing really more than awkward. Look away, go ‘that’s gross’ and be on his way. But it wasn’t that. They were just curled up, in the middle of what looked like a ridiculously comfortable nap. Matthew was clearly a clingy sleeper, and Bitters was using Matthews’ pudge as a pillow. It was a position that Grif knew well but hadn’t experienced in a decade.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there.

He’d really thought he was fine. He’d been fine yesterday, even if it’d taken a drug high to get there. Maybe he was just hitting the downswing that they always said heavy drugs had. Because suddenly his insides just… ached. Burning in the cold way that a winter chill did.

Then he averted his eyes slightly and tapped his knuckles against the bars. “Hey, nerds. Wake up.”

Bitters sat up first, rubbing one of his eyes. Matthews, not entirely awake, whined a little and tried to cling to him. Bitters stared blearily at Grif for a moment.

“Wha? Oh, it’s you.”

“Five more minutes,” Matthews grumbled under his breath, rolling over and trapping Bitters beneath him. Bitters rolled his eyes, continuing to eye Grif as if nothing was happening.

“You sober?” Bitters asked.

“For the moment. Need to talk to you.” When Bitters didn’t move, just watching Grif expectantly, Grif sighed and added, “Somewhere else?”

Bitters looked at how Grif was averting his eyes, glanced sideways at the still-mostly-asleep Matthews and gestured with the arm that wasn’t trapped. “Hey, you’re the one who suggested taking a nap to keep out of the way.”

“Yeah, I know, but--”

“Ain’t my problem if you have a problem with how I do it.”

“I don’t, just… aghh. Look, fine, we can talk here. Weirdo.” Grif huffed, before crossing his arms. Still not quite making eye contact. “Look, I said some dumb shit the other day.”

“Yeah. You say a lot of dumb shit. That’s no different.”

“Well, sure I know that. But I mean… I tried to shove drugs at you, and that’s kinda bullshit. Fuck knows that I know how sketchy that can be, and I’ve probably chased around a few druggies in my day for trying to pawn that shit off on my sister. So… that was my bad. Sorry.”

Bitters shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I didn’t take it.”

“Yeah, but that’s because Matthews is all vigilant and shit.”

“Vigilanteee,” Matthews mumbled sleepily before sitting up. He blinked at Grif a few times, then instinctively pulled the sheets up a little. “Oh, uh… hi, sir!”

“Stop calling me sir, it’s—ugh, nevermind, do what you want. Anyway, if I try to give you drugs again in the future, you got permission to just… I dunno, slap me or something. Just keep away from the balls.”

Matthews nods seriously, while Bitters just rolls his eyes.

“Uh huh. Anyway, we’re good. Yeah?” Bitters looked over at Matthews, raising his eyebrows slowly.

Matthews considered it a little longer, eying Grif for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah. Long as you don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try. Can’t make no promises while I’m on the damn things, but--”

“Honestly, I’d keep away from the shrooms. They seem sketchy as fuck,” Bitters said. “I mean, you do you, I don’t care. But I don’t trust anything that glows.”

“Hey, when you find a better way of passing the time, you tell me.”

Grif headed back to his cell afterwards, trying to push the image of the two asleep out of his head. When he got back to his cell, it was empty. Lopez was probably hanging with Dos. Or Sheila. Yeah, probably Sheila. And that just made him feel bitter all over again.

He sat down on his bunk. He looked down, and he was already holding the half-eaten packet of meth-meth shrooms. He didn’t even remember picking them up.

 

* * *

 

Donut sat in the corner of the cell, using an ice-cream stick to do another soap carving. The soap was cheap, but it smelt faintly of lavender. Occasionally, he’d close his eyes and breathed in the smell. He tried to think about the last time he’d smelt proper lavender. One of those stores with the really fancy soaps, maybe. It was easier to latch onto memories of the outside with scents.

As he breathed in slowly and deeply, he heard faint footsteps outside his cell. Too light to be Caboose’s. Donut opened his eyes abruptly, tensing automatically, but relaxed when he saw a glimpse of snapdragon tattoos.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Felix watched him continue his carving through the bars of his cell for a moment before sliding in, soon sprawling in the blanket fort. “Damn, this is a luxury fort. And lavender soap? Fancy. I know you didn’t get all this from the commissary.”

“Me and Caboose went splitsies on the blankets, and that took us a few years of accumulating them,” Donut said. “I went through Doc for them. He agreed that warmth was important. Honestly, I’m pretty sure he undercharged me.”

Felix nodded a little before rolling onto his stomach, propping his chin on one hand and absently kicking his legs as he watched Donut.

“I think I’ve thought of a way to pay you back,” he said.

“Felix, it’s fine,” Donut said dismissively.

“Hear me out, hear me out. I think you’ll like this one. But it reminds me of something I wanted to ask about. It, uh… might be a little personal but I’m just really curious.”

“Go for it. I’m all about being honest--”

“How’d you lose your ear?”

“Oh.” Donut paused, fingers coming up to touch the scarred flaps that were all that remained of his left ear. “Uh… O’Malley. That guy who turned up dead in--”

“The asshole, gotcha.”

“He left me with a whole heap of scars. Most of them were during the one attack. See?” Donut lifted one of his arms, turning it so that Felix could see the faded marks. Felix slid off the fort and shuffled closer to Donut’s corner to have a look. “I got most of them on my torso. But this arm got it bad because I had nothing to block with. Then he took my ear. Never found out what he did with it.”

“That’s hardcore,” Felix said, reaching out and grasping Donut’s wrist, turning the arm so the light hit the scars right. “Why don’t you just get a prosthetic ear, though?”

Donut blinked at Felix. “...They have those?”

Felix looked at him, then let go of his arm before reaching up to the side of his own head.

“Catch,” he said, before seemingly tearing one of his ears from his head and tossing it at Donut.

Donut did catch it, but with no small amount of shrieking.

“AaaaAAAHHGH—god, don’t do that!” Donut bellowed, tossing the prosthetic from hand to hand like he was playing a game of hot potato. Felix cackled, sprawling back across the floor.

“Ohh man, the look on your face!"

Donut stuck out his tongue before examining the prosthetic. The brief flash of startled fear had immediately caved to curiosity as he examined the fake.

“I didn’t think they had fakes. I always wondered where you’d put it on,” he mused.

Felix turned his head so that Donut could see the glimmer of metal. “Mine use magnets. You can get, like… skin-glue or something instead, but I prefer the magnets. Anyway, prosthetics are great; Helps with the, y’know… hearing? Plus I look less lopsided and I can throw it at people to freak them out. Case in point.” He gestured at Donut with a grin.

“Rude,” Donut grumbled, throwing it back. Felix caught it before snapping it back into place. Now that Donut squinted, he could see the line separating flesh from fake. Donut had just never looked close enough to notice before. “How’d you lose yours?”

“So, like I was saying,” Felix continued, ignoring the question. “I figured you’d gotten at least some of those scars in here. You look tough, but I bet you ain’t trained in a fight, yeah?”

“Well, no...”

“Knew it. Well, I’m fucking amazing. And I feel like, with a little training, I can make you pretty damn good.”

Donut eyed Felix doubtfully. “Uh… that’s okay.”

“What? You want proof. Hit me.”

“Stop telling me to hit you!”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Felix coaxed. He got to his feet, grasping Donut’s arm and pulling him up as well. “Look… just like… run at me and try and punch me or something. I promise it won’t hurt you.”

“It’s not me that I’m worried about,” Donut protested, even as Felix pushed him to the other end of the cell before backing away a few feet.

“Wow. Just… wow. Not even giving me a chance to prove myself.” Felix grinned at him for a moment, but it faded quickly. He sighed. “Look, this… isn’t all unselfish. You saw me in a bad place. A place that made me look weak. I’m not weak. You have to know even better than I do that appearing weak cannot stand in a prison. If you don’t go with this I’m just gonna have to punch someone at random in front of you.”

“You don’t have to prove anything. I’m not going to pounce on you just because I saw Sharkface do it.”

“I can’t know that. Don’t take it personal, I don’t trust anyone.”

Donut huffed before sighing. “Okay, okay, that’s fair. We are in prison. Alright...” Donut brushed his soapy hands on his pants. He supposed one punch was fine if the guy was literally requesting it. Besides, he’d punched Church a few times and they… weren’t quite friends but they still got along?

“When you’re ready,” Felix said, bouncing on the balls of his feet cheerfully.

Donut didn’t really know how to start—any time he’d punched someone it’d been driven by impulsive rage—so he just… lunged forward. Ready with the right hook.

The last thing Donut saw was Felix’s smug grin and just the faintest glimmer of movement before he had the bizarre sensation of somersaulting. Then he was on the ground, with Felix sitting smugly on top of him.

“...What just happened?” Donut asked.

“Why do you think Sharkface had to drug me to get the drop on me?” Felix asked, laying backwards and using Donut as an impromptu mattress. “Interested in learning?”

“That doesn’t… how the hell did you throw me?!” Donut asked, squirming a little. He did ache a bit from hitting the ground—it was, after all, a stone floor—but less than he would have expected.

“That’ll be lesson one.”

“Okay. I’m interested. Can I get up?”

Felix considered it. “...Nah. This is the punishment for failing. Think about what you did wrong. Besides, you’re very comfortable.”

“Your elbows are all pokey,” Donut complained.

“Well, that just added another two minutes onto your timeout,” Felix said, settling in and folding his arms underneath his head lazily.

“Ahh, fine.” Donut settled in for a rest, wishing that the floor was a little less cold. After a few moments he said, “You never told me how you lost your ear?”

Felix didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered to the side for a few moments before his expression became closed-off. Finally he said, “I trusted the wrong person.”

“Aww, you can’t just stop there!” Donut protested. “I’m gonna die of curiosity and you’re going to have that on your conscious.”

“Wellll.” Felix grinned again. “Maybe once you’ve proven yourself to be… not the wrong sort of person.”

“I can work with those terms.”

 

* * *

 

About the same time as Donut was hitting the ground in his cell, C.T was doing the same in a dusty, disused room. Turns out that Flowers was still fast. Son of a bitch.

“Best two out of three?” C.T asked, staring at the ceiling. It was difficult to manage it, as Flowers had clipped him in the eye with his elbow and already the bruising was starting to seal his eyelid shut.

“Now, Hawke, you can’t improve if you pretend you didn’t lose. Mistakes are to learn from.” Flowers sat down next to him, kicking his feet out like he was enjoying a sunny day in the park instead of sitting on a stone floor, crawling with dust that made C.T’s nose itch. He’d not escaped without some marks. His nose looked a little crushed, and Flowers had one hand up to stifle the bleeding.

C.T sat up with some difficulty, his back cracking a little as he did so. A reminder that he wasn’t really the right age to be doing this anymore, as fun as it was. He noticed Flowers wasn’t resting his weight on his bad shoulder, either, and was perhaps wincing a little more than he might once have done.

“So. A name,” Flowers said, grinning at him.

C.T hesitated. Internally debating whether to openly deny Flowers the information he wanted for a moment. Either way he’d be lying. Giving away one of his own allies was never an option. Not that hesitation mattered, either. It’d be weird if he didn’t hesitate.

“And what are you intending to do with that name?” he asked.

“You know, I haven’t decided yet?” Flowers propped his chin on his hands, grinning. “Deal’s a deal.”

C.T let another moment of hesitation go by, although in actuality he’d already picked a name to give the moment he’d realised he was losing the fight. It’d be easy to pick someone who’d be better out of the way—the temptation to say it was Tucker was incredibly strong—but Flowers would never fall for that, and probably had enough access to old records to be able to realise how unlikely that was. So he picked someone small-time. “XT. If you can’t figure out who that is--”

“Oh, no, I know that nickname. Also not much of a team player. I’ve seen him play with the sporty fellows. Too ego-focused. Great dancer, though,” Flowers mused.

“Yeah. Pretty sweet moves,” C.T agreed blindly. Truth be told, he knew little about the guy. Mostly just that he was an asshole whose own crew didn’t seem to like him, and that he’d stiffed Manly on payment for some cocaine.

It’d be interesting to see what Flowers would do to him.

 

* * *

 

Delta couldn’t wait on Church to solve his problem for him. While he was keeping his distance, the amount of times he’d seen Church wandering about looking vaguely puzzled had gotten more numerous. Tracking down O’Malley’s will might have to be done on his own.

There was also the matter of Washington, who had apparently returned to the prison. Washington could either attack him or tell the authorities who he was. The former was more likely, since Washington would not implicate himself that way. Delta could accept that.

There was also the matter of Doc and his probable murder of O’Malley. Which Delta had spent some weeks pondering, in between thinking about the more pressing issues. In doing so, he’d realised that perhaps he could use it as a stepping stone.

The facts. Doc had likely killed O’Malley. That much was obvious from the timing of his questions and his protection of Wash. Doc cared about Wash enough to kill for him. That on its own meant little. Doc was not the one who was a danger to Delta. But Delta had leverage on him. Enough circumstantial knowledge to be able to tell the authorities what Doc had done. The key part of his idea, however, was being able to blackmail Wash with this fact. That would only work if Wash cared just as much for Doc.

If he mimicked O’Malley’s own move and made his own will, then it would protect him from death. Provided he could find someone to give the will to. Provided that either Wash or Doc didn’t attack him anyway. Provided that his speculations had any grounding in reality.

Too much speculation for Delta to be comfortable with. And he couldn’t question Wash or Doc directly without giving himself away.

But they had a friend.

Which was why Delta was wandering the prison, looking for York. Or at least, that was the primary reason. Even thinking about it made him feel sick to his stomach. Grilling York for information so he could, in part, continue avoiding responsibility for his wife’s murder.

There was also the secondary reason of York turning out to be decent conversation.

When Delta found him, York was walking the corridors on patrol. For once, he didn’t have C.C with him. Delta caught up to him before he went far, relieved at the absence of the dog.

“York.”

“Sup, Dee.” York looked a little surly, but less so than he’d been recently. He did manage to give Delta a grin. “Still bored enough to talk to guards, huh?”

“Most of the guards are not decent company,” Delta said. “They are still rather jumpy.”

“Can’t say I blame them, but yeah. Well, I won’t turn down the company. Running patrol gets dull.”

“I heard that Washington was back.”

“Yeah… guy’s unstoppable,” York said, sighing in a tone that said he didn’t believe it but was trying (and failing) to be cavalier about it. “Prison’s noticed, huh?”

“It is a topic of discussion.”

“Well, don’t let him hear you chattering about it.” York rubbed the back of his head before adding, “Anyway, I’m sure all the guards will chill once they remember that Wash is grumpy and hates everyone.”

“Does Washington not have friends?”

“He might have some kind of secret buddy group outside the prison that I don’t know about. But in here? Mostly just Doc.”

Confirmed friendship. A step forward. Delta wanted to ask more questions about the specific nature of it, but was having trouble figuring out how to word it without sounding too inquisitive. Before he could, York gave him a look and spoke again.

“You know, if you’re this bored you could go to one of the art classes. It’s something to do.”

Delta rubbed his fingers, remembering old paint stains, and a little bit of the guilt that seethed in his stomach whenever he looked at York disappeared. He might feel bad, but he was sure he’d kill Carolina again if he was faced with the choice.

“I am not good at art,” he said outloud.

“Yeah, but hardly anyone is.”

“Accurate.” Delta looked up, eyes slipping past York to further down the corridor. Then the colour drained from his face.

Wash was standing in the corridor, holding C.C’s leash and clearly nervous at the fact that he was currently holding the more dangerous of the two dogs, as she growled at him. Wash looked up, relief crossing his face as he saw York. And then his expression growing stone cold as he looked at Delta.

“C.C!” York called out, quickly hurrying forward and reaching out to ruffle her fur, taking the leash from Wash in the process. “Did you miss me?” C.C responded by slobbering all over the side of his face. “Aww, me too, girl. I’ll try and keep my bathroom breaks shorter. You can’t go in the bathrooms, it’s a dude bathroom and you are, of course, a fancy lady.”

Wash watched York pat C.C, then looked at Delta, then looked at York. Then back at Delta, his eyes narrowing.

“What are… what are you doing here?” A normal question for any other guard, but from Wash…

Delta didn’t have time to respond before York piped up, “We were hanging and talking about art.”

“...Art,” Wash said quietly, glaring daggers at Delta.

“Art,” Delta concurred quietly, taking a step back. “I will leave you to your business.”

“Later, Dee!” York said, as he continued to ruffle C.C’s fur.

As Delta backed away, not daring to turn and leave his back exposed, Wash continued to glare. Out of sight of York, Wash mouthed four words. They seemed to stutter a little, even just while being mouthed, but the message was clear. _Stay away from him._

Delta left feeling guilty, somewhat wary about Wash's threats, and a little annoyed that York wasn't the one that had killed O'Malley. It would have made this all so much easier.


	18. Chapter Fifteen: Exit Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church attempts to check if Doc has the will. C.T and Flowers have another round, and C.T admits why he's really there. Wash and South have a conversation, much to his irritation. And a drug high goes very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be the last before another series of flashbacks.

Sometimes C.T got pretty fucking pissed at his dad. Although when he did, it was usually more relating to the ‘employee and often unreasonable boss’ relationship they had, which definitely took precedent over familial bonds.

It wasn’t enough that he had to run a drug operation from within prison walls. It wasn’t enough that he also had to root out the Director’s people. No, now he had to help protect some shitty kid whose only claim to fame was being on a sub-par reality show.

“Did you ask why Lozano thinks that Felix is out to murder him?” C.T huffed.

C.T paced around the bench irritably, arms crossed as he circled and muttered under his breath. Sharkface was lying sprawled on a bench and was holding a book in the air, staring upwards and mostly looking at the pictures. By the side of the bench, Locus stood with his arms crossed and waited.

Sharkface shrugged, more focused on his book. “Girlie said she asked, but that Lozano just muttered something about ‘baseless accusations’ under his breath before demanding that she do as she’s told. He was fucking rude about it.”

“Ughhh.” C.T continued pacing before looking at Locus. “And you can’t just kill Felix in his sleep or something? It’d be the quickest way to get the kid off Girlie’s back.”

“I could. But I will be held responsible if Felix dies in my cell,” Locus said. “I would likely be placed in isolation for an extended period of time. Possibly transferred entirely. You would be down one man. If that is worth the price of protecting Gabriel Lozano—“

“It really isn’t,” C.T grumbled.

Truth be told, he was already down one man—so to speak—as long as Lozano was freaking out. Girlie had been told to protect him and Lozano was clinging to this protection as often as he could. It made it hard for Girlie to do anything else that helped C.T without exposing details of their operations to Lozano.

“Am I allowed to ask why Lozano is being protected?” Locus questioned. “Last I heard, the Lozano family was not affiliated with the Chairman.”

“You know a lot about them?” C.T asked as he continued to pace.

“I know the family has some small fame. I know that Gabriel runs a nightclub and uses the VIP area for a number of illicit activities.” Locus tilted his head for a moment, thinking, before adding, “Felix is likely threatening to reveal any that weren’t revealed. Given prison culture, revealing the child prostitution ring would be particularly—“

“He what? He has one of those?” C.T stopped pacing, eying Locus with a frown. “You’re sure?”

“I assumed you knew. Sebiel knew,” Locus said plainly.

“I worked with Sebiel, but I don’t recall… that wasn’t Sebiel’s business.”

“Sebiel’s business involved gathering children who were willing to do illegal and socially unacceptable jobs in exchange for money. Different purpose. Same base.”

“Great. Just great,” C.T muttered. He didn’t have illusions that his scouting work for Sebiel had been for the greater good, but Locus comparing it to child prostitution left a really bad taste in his mouth. He returned to pacing, feeling a little nauseous.

“I say let Lozano kick the bucket,” Sharkface said bluntly. “Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but let that rat-faced fuck say what he wants. Good riddance.”

“That’s not what the Chairman wants,” C.T muttered.

“Why?” Sharkface grumbled.

C.T shrugged. “Money, probably.”

“Offending Ruben Lozano would be unwise,” Locus said.

“That, too.”

C.T was half-tempted to listen to Sharkface anyway. He’d rather just murder all the Lozanos outright than bother kow-towing to them like this. But Hargrove’s word was law, and Hargrove wanted Lozano alive.

C.T sighed, looking back to Locus. “If you can get away with strangling Felix in his sleep then at least give it a try.”

“I can only hope,” Locus said dryly.

“If not, look for something we can poison or somewhere he goes where we can stab him.”

“Unlikely,” Sharkface grunted. He lowered the book before pointing across the yard, not bothering to conceal the movement. Donut was hanging out some laundry, and Felix was sitting nearby and chatting to him. “He’s following Donut around. We’d have to take them both out at minimum, and they’re usually close to the rest of his crew.”

As Sharkface spoke, Donut glanced over. He saw Sharkface pointing straight at them, and lifted his arms while scowling at Sharkface, as if to ask Sharkface ‘what the fuck are you looking at?’ Meanwhile Felix visibly struggled not to grin at them. Sharkface lowered his hand but didn’t look away.

“Gonna have to talk to Donut anyway,” Sharkface continued. “He keeps loudly referring to me as a ‘creepy sex predator’ and I am really not about this new reputation.”

“That was your own fault,” Locus pointed out.

“Maybe, but I don’t have to like it.”

C.T just kept pacing, Sharkface and Locus fading into the background as he scanned the yard. He stared at Felix for a few moments before moving on. Felix just wasn’t enough of a concern to want to use the element of surprise on murdering him. C.T would prefer to get all the information he needed to finish his job first, and get rid of every problem at once.

His gaze moved further along to the group of inmates playing with a half-deflated basketball. He spotted his cellmate, Coach, sitting by them and nodding off while the others squabbled about the rules. He could also see the inmate he’d named to Flowers as his supposed ally.

XT was a tall, tough-looking guy wearing a red bandana. He was bigger than most of Coach’s crew (only the bulky, dim-witted man they suitably called Tank was bigger) and was clearly not afraid to show it. As C.T watched, XT grabbed the basketball, giving Rookie a light but overly aggressive shove to get him away from it. It reminded C.T of some of the children he’d seen in the foster homes and orphanages he’d done work in. The bigger child who would push children around just enough to let them know that more violence was on the way if they didn’t do what he wanted. Sometimes C.T had seen it from children who learned it from their parents. And sometimes the kids were just assholes, pure and simple.

He hadn’t seen Flowers approach XT so far, nor had there been any signs of discreet interrogation from anyone else. It didn’t seem like Flowers had acted on the tip. Perhaps Flowers knew he’d been lying. Or maybe he was biding his time until he thought it would affect C.T the most.

Either way, C.T wanted to see what false name Flowers would use. Flowers would never use a real ally, C.T had no illusions about that. Just as C.T would never throw away one of his own men. This was a game.

C.T felt itchy after the talk concerning Lozano. He needed to get the itch out.

“I have some things to do,” C.T grunted before moving off towards the prison. Sharkface watched him go, then snorted and returned to his book.

He was sure Flowers would be up for another round.

 

* * *

 

When Church knocked on the door to Doc’s office, he didn’t get an immediate response. He waited, foot tapping irritably against the ground, before he knocked again.

“Doc! At least tell me if you’re busy, asshole!” Church called out, testing the doorknob. The door was locked, but he could see light through the crack at the bottom of the door.

After knocking persistently for another thirty seconds, Church huffed and glared at the door. He finally managed to get his thoughts together enough to ask Doc about the will (and to pick up the usual alcohol and other goods that Doc helped him sneak in) and the asshole was ignoring him.

He turned away, only to come face to face with Kimball.

“Is Doc in there?” she asked.

Church shrugged. Kimball looked at him, then at the door. Her eyes flickered down, then she frowned and stepped forward, at the same time rummaging at her belt for some keys. A few moments later, she’d unlocked the door and pushed her way inside. Church followed with some trepidation. It wasn’t as if he could ask anything invasive or pick up booze with Kimball around.

Doc was asleep at his desk, head resting on some paperwork. A pen was still clasped loosely in his hand. Kimball walked over and gave him a brief, soft shake by the shoulder.

“Doc--”

Doc shot up like a rocket, a sheet of paper stuck to the side of his face, and he immediately pushed back from his desk, still holding the pen like he was going to throw it at someone. His eyes darted to Kimball, then to Church. After a moment, his shoulders sagged and he relaxed a little. “Oh. Uh… did I--”

“Sorry,” Kimball said, pulling her hand back. “You were asleep.”

“Right. Right.” Doc peeled the sheet of paper off his face and adjusted his glasses. They’d left red marks on his face where he’d been leaning into them. “Uhh… oh, Church, you must be here for...” Doc paused, his eyes flickering to Kimball for a moment. “For… the appointment. Sorry, Kimball, you needed something?”

“I had some notes to go over with you. Talked to Sheila about anything that can be done to help with the drug therapy. What alternatives she can offer for any that need to get off something slowly. I can come back--”

“Oh, uh...” Doc looked at Church for a moment, mouth twisting. “Are… can you come back later, or…?”

“How long’s it going to take?” Church asked Kimball. “Because if you’re not going to take long, I’d rather wait here. Otherwise I’m gonna have to walk up here again, and I’ve got better shit to do.”

“It’s confidential… I guess if you waited outside--” Kimball started.

Church groaned irritably. “But my old man legs!” he whined, trying to mimic the tone that he’d heard Tucker use when guards were bothering him to do something.

Old wasn’t as guilt-inducing as blind, but for Doc it was enough. He immediately gestured at the therapy lounge. “Uh, you can lie down while you wait! Kimball and I can talk outside. That’s fine, right?”

“Yeah. We’ll keep it short,” Kimball said. The two of them left, Kimball already handing part of the paperwork to Doc as he closed the door behind him.

Church waited just a few seconds, listening to their muffled voices, before immediately heading for Doc’s desk. He gave the papers on the desk a cursory glance, but none of them looked very interesting.

He glanced around, eyes landing on the filing cabinets that kept patient files. He darted over and tested the drawer labelled L-P. Locked. Then he looked back at the desk before picking up some of the files. A small wad of patient lists and instructions that were held together with a paper clip. Church took the paper clip. After some rummaging on the desk he found another one.

Like some shitty lock on a filing cabinet was going to stop him. It’d been a long time since he picked a lock. It was a pleasant surprise to find out that his hands still remembered how to do it. As Church fiddled with the lock—not a strong one, they probably didn’t think the prisoner’s psyche profiles were important enough to guard—he kept an ear out for the conversation stopping.

With a small clunk, the drawer opened. Church pulled it out as quietly as he could. He didn’t have to browse to find O’Malley’s file. It was immediately evident.

“What the fuck,” Church said flatly. Compared to the files around it, O’Malley’s folder looked like a novel. Church gingerly pulled it out, wondering why he was surprised. Of course someone like Doc would try to figure out why O’Malley was how he was instead of writing him off as a lost cause. He weighed it in his hands for a moment, mouth twisting into a frown.

Reading through this would take more time than he had.

Church looked around the room quickly before his eyes landed on the therapy sofa. Church stared at it for a moment, then slid the drawer shut and walked to the sofa. He put O’Malley’s folder down before taking off his jacket. He laid it out on the sofa, moved the folder into the middle of it and folded the jacket around it.

Once the folder was covered, Church placed his jacket at one end of the sofa. He then laid down on it, using his jacket as a pillow, and waited.

The door opened a couple of minutes after Church was done, and Doc walked back in. He saw Church resting on his jacket and frowned.

“Is the sofa getting those hard bits inside the cushions again?”

“Yeah. No big deal, though. Still comfier than my bunk,” Church said dismissively, sitting up. “Hey, I just wanted to ask if you could hold my goods for… I dunno, another day?” Normally he folded them up in his jacket too. It wouldn’t fit now.

“Oh. Uh… I don’t know about that. I… I really shouldn’t be keeping it here for you in the first place, and keeping it here longer just makes it riskier, Church,” Doc said hesitantly.

“Yeah, well, people keep following me around and I want to make sure they’re not before I stash the shit in my cell. Unless you want the guys to go back to drinking toilet liquor?”

“No,” Doc sighed. “No, I don’t want that. Uh… I’ll hold it for a day more, but that’s all. Okay?”

“Alright. Thanks.” Church picked up his jacket as he climbed to his feet, tucking it under his arm. As he did, he noticed Doc’s eyes travelling down. His blood froze.

Doc tilted his head, a small frown on his face. After what felt like an age, he spoke.

“If you’re forgetting that much you should probably see a doctor.” Doc nodded his head at Church’s arms, now bare without the jacket covering him, and the numerous reminders scrawled up to the elbows.

“Mind your own business,” Church grumbled. With that, he turned and left the office.

The moment he was out, and the door has closed behind him, Church pressed his free hand against the wall and doubled over. Jesus Christ, he hadn’t robbed anyone in a long time. He forgot how pants-shittingly terrifying it was during the act, but he’d also forgotten the high of pulling it off.

He hummed cheerily under his breath as he headed for the cells.

 

* * *

 

Wash may not have been a dog person, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate himself from Freckles. He wasn’t exactly feeling affection for the aggressive animal, but his constant presence was comforting.

This of course meant that Caboose was now following him around.

“Are you walking him enough? Are you feeding him enough? Are you telling him that he is a good boy enough? You have to tell him at least seven times a day. But it is even better if you tell him more.”

Caboose was talking non-stop, grilling Wash about how he treated Freckles. But if Wash sped up in an attempt to leave him behind in the corridor, Freckles would come to a complete stop and sit until Caboose caught up.

“Caboose, can you… can you not?” Wash grumbled.

“I want to make sure you are treating Freckles like a good boy,” Caboose said stubbornly.

The odd thing was that Caboose was a lot more understandable than everyone else. He didn’t have to pause to put together Caboose’s words. Well, sometimes he did. But in the same way that had been necessary with Caboose before he’d got his head cracked.

It took a moment for Wash to realise why. Caboose was gesturing as he spoke, emphasizing his words with hand gestures. It made it much easier to follow what he was saying. Wash stared down at Caboose’s hands for a moment. Caboose looked at Wash, then looked at his hands, then back at Wash.

“You hurt your head,” Caboose said simply.

“I’m fine,” Wash said shortly. “Why’re… what’s with the murderers getting all...” He waved his hand vaguely, nose scrunched up as he tried to recall the word. “...Fluffy?” Close enough. If Donut came up to him next and offered a hug, Wash was going to flip a table.

Caboose was not put off. “You should talk to Sheila. She knows noo… neururrrrr… head-things. She is good with head-fuzz. She helped me when I was having trouble with the words not working good. And she will not make you feel stupid.”

“Already saw a doctor. I don’t… I don’t need to be babied.”

“Okay.”

Another voice spoke up. “Hey, Caboose. Fuck off for a bit, would you?”

Wash felt that usual pulse of anger in his stomach that occurred every time he heard South’s voice. He didn’t want to deal with that. Caboose was much preferable to South.

“Ignore her,” Wash said.

“But she is an angry guard,” Caboose said as he looked at South.

“Yeah, well… so am I. Ignore her.”

South scowled at him. “For fuck’s sake, Wash. I just want to talk to you.”

Wash wondered if Freckles would attack South if he asked. And whether he could pass it off as a training accident or not.

South frowned further when Wash gave no response. “If we don’t talk now, I’m just gonna have to try again later. I’m not a fucking quitter.”

That was an intensely tiring thought. Tiring enough that the rage simmered down even contemplating it, to be replaced with exhausted annoyance.

“...Fine.” Wash nodded his head away from them, looking at Caboose. “Alright, go.”

“Okay!” Caboose gave Freckles a quick scratch behind the ear and trotted off, but not before stopping by South and stage-whispering, “You need to use your hands to talk. It helps the brain go.”

“Caboose!” Wash snapped. Caboose, unbothered by the yell, gave South a serious nod and walked off.

“...Makes the brain go?” South looked at Wash. “The fuck’s he on about?”

“What, South?” Wash asked bluntly, all the while hoping that if he glared at her enough she would spontaneously combust.

“I just wanted to check on you, is that so fucking wrong?”

“I don’t want you checking on me. I don’t want you anywhere near me. The only thing I want is, I… I want you to tumble into a gutter and die.”

“Okay, you know what? Fine. I fucked you over. I get that. But dancing around each other and pretending it didn’t happen is just dumb. Besides, if you’d been the one with the gun… you saying you would have done differently?”

“Yes,” Wash said acidly.

“Yeah, think that if you want. But that guy wasn’t going down. I mean… okay, he did go down but… ten years later, so he was probably old by then. Maybe lost his instincts. Or Donut’s secretly like--”

“South!” Wash snapped before brandishing his hands to the sides in a wide shrug, a silent ‘is that all?’ Partially hiding the fact that he was losing the thread of the conversation.

South did go quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowing at him. Then she said, “Why are you here?”

“You won’t leave.”

“No, I mean… here.” South pointed at the ground. “Valhalla. You get literally tortured and you’re back at work two weeks later? People have taken more time off for the flu! Plus, you’re old. You not thinking about retirement or anything? I mean, the Big D--”

“The… wait, what?”

“You know who I mean, and I mean it in both senses of the word. He’s not keeping you here like he is me.”

The Director sure was keeping a lot of people here… Wash had half a mind to ask why, but he wasn’t going to dignify South’s existence by asking her questions. Instead, he stared her down and took a step forward. South didn’t move back, meeting his gaze squarely, although she did tense up in the shoulders. Wash shut his eyes for a moment, scraping what words he had together. Going over them in his head. Then speaking.

“Do you know what you cost me? Do you actually know?” When South opened her mouth to reply, Wash shoved a hand out and motioned for her to shut up. “Don’t… I’m trying to… you don’t. Don’t tell me you do. Three months in the dark. Eight months in hospitals. Psych test after psych test. Debt from the hospital bills, more debt from the Director paying them and demanding interest. Oh, also.”

Wash reached into his mouth, fiddling for a moment before pulling out the plate that contained half a mouthful of teeth. He held it out towards South, at the same time baring his remaining teeth so she could see for herself.

South did take a step back at that, although she said nothing. Wash jammed the teeth back into his mouth before pulling his sleeves up and exposing the scars.

“Arms. Torso. One of the legs. Four hours here was nothing, so why’re… why are you doing concern now and not then? What you cost me was a million times worse. If… if I’d had the gun… I would never have done this to you.”

Wash considered it for a moment, picturing South covered in carefully carved scars and missing half her teeth.

“Not then,” he finished. “Now please. Please. Just fuck off.”

Wash made to move past her, after giving Freckles’ leash a light tug to get him moving. Before he could do so, South grabbed his arm.

“Wash. Bit of advice, from me to you. And I know it doesn’t make up for shit, but listen.” South looked at him dead-on. “Get the fuck out of dodge while you still can.”

Wash said nothing. Only yanked his arm out of her grip and kept going.

 

* * *

 

South watched him leave, then huffed under her breath.

“Stubborn bastard,” she muttered.

She turned and headed towards the yard. As she walked, she resisted the urge to run her tongue over the teeth on one side of her mouth. Her gums felt itchy. But whatever, it wasn’t like she’d known that would happen to him. Wasn’t like he was dead, either.

She stepped out into the yard, eyes scanning the area until she saw that familiar overly elaborate braid that Flowers wore. She approached, stopping next to Flowers as he watched over the yard. Flowers didn’t say anything, but he did turn his head slightly and give her a friendly smile before he focused back on the inmates. His gaze was currently on the big, tattooed guy who was currently arguing with a guy with a prosthetic arm.

South struggled a little getting the words out. They caught in her throat once or twice before she managed it.

“It was Felix. And I know because I gave him the shit he used.”

Flowers did nothing immediately except slowly turn his head to look at South. Dark eyes unreadable. South had always found his constant smiling creepy. The fact that he wasn’t smiling now was infinitely more chilling.

Finally he said, in his usual friendly tone, “Thank you for your honesty, South.”

He turned his gaze back to the yard without another word. South opened her mouth to ask questions. So many questions. But… no. She was getting major creepy vibes just being there, so she quickly turned and walked away. Heading back to the prison to continue with her patrol.

She told herself that she’d only said it as a middle finger to Felix.

 

* * *

 

O’Malley’s file was gone.

Doc had opened his drawer to put away some of the files he’d been going through—various addicts, primarily, trying to figure out if there was anything that could be done to speak to them specifically—and he’d noticed the huge gap where O’Malley’s file had been.

Doc closed the drawer and held it there, as if that would undo the reality of what he’d seen as a chill ran through him. Why would anyone take O’Malley’s folder? Why would they do it without just asking him? Doc opened the drawer again, and then started trailing his hand along the folders looking for any scrap that might have been left behind.

Did they know? Were they trying to find evidence that he’d killed O’Malley? Would there be anything in that folder supporting it? Everything Doc wrote down had been relating to work. Hadn’t it? Tests and observations. All of it as clinical as he could manage. The only thing that could even be considered proof wasn’t even part of his psychology work, it was—

Doc stopped cold.

He had O’Malley’s will. He’d entirely forgotten about it. He hadn’t touched it since he told Wash he had it. Wash had held it, then handed it back to him. Doc had been preoccupied with stitching that doll for therapy at the time. And so he’d tossed the will in his desk drawer.

Doc slammed the file cabinet shut and started rummaging through his desk. Underneath some stacks of notes, pens and a box of mints (cinnamon mints, not spearmint) he found the envelope. He pulled it out, closing the drawer, and then sat down at his desk and put it in front of him.

He steepled his fingers together and pressed them against his mouth, and he stared at the letter.

Was this what the thief had wanted? Was there someone actually dedicated to finding the truth of O’Malley’s death? This wouldn’t have that in it. O’Malley hadn’t seen it coming. So the moral thing to do here would be to hand it to Niner. It was a will. It could have all manner of important things in it.

But what was important to O’Malley? Chaos. That was all that had ever mattered to him. He just wanted everyone to suffer while he cackled. Anything that was important to him… it would hurt someone. It had to.

He hadn’t done the morally right thing when he killed O’Malley, either. That made it easier to ignore this time around. What was keeping a letter in comparison to murder?

So what did he do with it? Burn it? Make it so whatever it was would go to the grave with O’Malley? That would make the most sense. Whatever was in this, it was nothing good. And he could always say that it was stolen along with the rest of his files, if anyone ever came asking.

But Doc didn’t have a lighter on him. Just that was enough of a delay for curiosity to win out.

Doc carefully peeled the letter open, half-expecting… something… to happen. As if a cloud of poison dust or, even worse, O’Malley himself would just somehow pop out of it. Grinning and cackling about how Doc had stooped so low. But nothing happened.

For a moment, Doc held the folded will in his hands. He tilted his head back and shut his eyes. He took a long, deep breath. Then he opened it.

The paper was in a rough state. It seemed like O’Malley had only had one sheet of paper to work with, because a lot of the will was crossed out. Sometimes just words or a sentence, but a couple of paragraphs were entirely shaded over. It took some squinting at to even piece together the sentences.

Once his eyes started to follow the lines, however… Doc squinted, then leaned forward and pulled his legs up as he read O’Malley’s final testament.

 

_If you are reading this, I have been murdered. Unless you are Doc, in which case you’re being a very naughty boy right now. I am very proud of you. But you will also experience a fountain of regrets._

 

Doc had two emotions that happened alongside each other. The first was pure revulsion at the idea that O’Malley would have approved of what he was doing. The second, at that last sentence, was a brief, smug thought. _Not from you._ And then realising he was feeling smug about murder, of all things… that made him feel sick and faint.

The next few words of O’Malley’s letter were various attempts at writing down his form of evil laughter, though all of them had been crossed out.

 

_Assuming that you are opening my will due to my death, I am here to shed light on why it happened. Or what I assume happened. A lot of people want me dead. But the most likely scenario is that I’ve been silenced by a past associate who wished to escape the law. I was not entirely honest in my confession of past crimes. Imagine that, a dishonest serial killer! Have a moment to weep at the thought. The vast majority of our members were never caught._

_I believe that credit is due._

 

Doc quickly lowered the piece of paper. Face as pale as his complexion could get. He stared ahead, then glanced back down. Quickly, but long enough to see that O’Malley had listed information segmented into bullet points. Clinical, almost. Name. Crimes. Whether they were alive or dead. Where they could be found, if they were still alive. Who killed them, if they were dead.

Twenty-five years since Wash had been in that basement. Ten years since Doc had tried to help him let go of the need for revenge. And now… now Doc held all the answers that Wash had chased for so long.

He shouldn’t be reading. It wasn’t his to read.

Doc kept reading anyway.

 

* * *

 

This time, it was C.T who was left standing at the end of the fight. Flowers sat up, sliding over to the wall but not quite able to stand yet as his back cracked in an unpleasant way. As he propped himself against the wall, C.T gave a mock sigh of disappointment.

“Now who’s holding back?”

“I found it distinctly unfair that you were the only one doing so,” Flowers said mildly. “Although that last kick was new. Did you learn that from Connie?”

C.T shook his head as he sat down properly, splaying his legs out comfortably on the concrete surface of the room, despite the fact that the room contained multiple chairs. “Picked that off a guy in a different prison. Been around a few by now.”

Flowers nodded a little, leaning the back of his head on the wall and shutting his eyes as he rested. “I’m glad you found such lovely friendships. Very optimistic.”

“Is it friendship if you murdered them later?”

Flowers considered this for a few moments before saying, “The important thing is that you had a meaningful experience.”

“Alright. Good to know.”

Even with his eyes closed, Flowers heard it coming. His hand, despite the protest from his aching muscles, shot out to catch C.T’s wrist. Even then, when he opened his eyes, he saw a shiv just inches from his throat.

“...That’s unsporting,” Flowers said calmly, grip shaking as he slowly pushed C.T’s arm back. Giving himself enough room to breathe comfortably without the threat of metal piercing his jugular. It was a struggle. C.T was quite a bit bigger than him.

“I know. Shouldn’t have closed your eyes, though.” C.T pushed down, at the same time shifting forward so he was bracing himself with the other hand on the wall.

Neither of them broke the stalemate.

“You’re right. I was holding back,” C.T said quietly, talking calmly even as the metal inched back towards Flowers’ throat. “I shouldn’t be. Because my job here is to kill you.”

Flowers said nothing. He just grinned as his arm started to give a little.

C.T tilted his head, fingers tightening on the wall. After a moment he said, “I don’t want to kill you.”

Flowers moved, using his free hand to shove C.T’s arm aside. The shiv left a long scrape on the brick wall, just inches from Flowers’ ear, as he eyed C.T.

“And why, exactly, is that only a problem for you now?” Flowers asked, voice pleasant. Waiting—hoping--for C.T to lunge with the shiv once more. But C.T didn’t.

“I really couldn’t say.” C.T pulled the shiv away and slipped it back into his jacket. Then he shifted over so he was resting against the wall as well. “Nostalgia, maybe?”

“Orders are orders, Hawke. If that’s your job, you should put more effort into it. Do you need help getting motivated?”

“Technically… my order isn’t so much to kill you as it is to make sure this prison is clear of the Director’s men,” C.T said. “If, say, you just weren’t here any more… then it wouldn’t be my problem to deal with you.”

Flowers considered it for a few long moments before shutting his eyes again. He listened for another surprise attack, but it didn’t come. “Not to be pessimistic… but that isn’t going to happen.”

“Because loyalty?” C.T asked dryly. “I’m not asking you to go turncoat.”

“No? Going rogue from the Director is all well and good?” Flowers asked innocently, giving C.T a wide-eyed look. “All so the Chairman’s son can have a slightly easier life? I’m sure the Director would be 100% on board.”

“I’m asking for you to go rogue so that you don’t die, Butch. It’s no skin off my back either way.” C.T smiled wryly and added, “Honestly, killing you would probably be fun. You’d make it a good time. But I think the world is a much more interesting place with a crackpot like you in it.”

“Oh, Hawke, stop. You’re making me blush,” Flowers said, waving his hand dismissively as he ducked his head down.

His bun had come somewhat loose in the fight, and he reached up to start fixing it. It blocked C.T from his view for a moment, until C.T shifted forward to try and keep eye contact despite Flowers’ best efforts to avoid it.

“What loyalty do you owe the Director, anyway?” C.T asked, his voice soft and reasonable. “Any boss that was dumb enough to leave you here for so long doesn’t deserve it.”

For a brief moment, Flowers saw red again. His fingers paused. He stared ahead for a moment. Then he moved again, fingers continuing to work through his grey-streaked hair. He said nothing.

C.T waited. When he got no reply, he sighed. “Think about it. That’s all I’m saying.”

With a grunt, C.T pushed himself to his feet. Flowers kept his head down, mind ticking. As C.T put his hand on the doorknob, Flowers called out to him.

“South.”

C.T turned and looked at Flowers, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “...What.”

“The guard, not the direction. I lost the fight. There’s my payment. South.” Flowers still didn’t look up, more preoccupied with fixing his hair. “I assumed you’d forgotten to ask for it.”

He had. Now C.T squinted at Flowers suspiciously. “How helpful.”

“Honesty is important.” Flowers looked up, smiling widely at C.T as he continued to braid his hair and coil it around into that overly elaborate bun. “Isn’t it, Hawke?”

C.T didn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

“You learn anything?”

“Not a fuckin’ thing,” Church muttered. He had the sheets pulled over his head so that the guards couldn’t see him going through the files. Tucker had crawled under them as well despite the fact that the most he could do with the files was fold some of the discarded quizzes into paper airplanes. His job was, if a guard moved inside, to roll out of the sheets naked and make the guard feel awkward and leave.

Tucker claimed this was a carefully constructed plan and not just an excuse to be naked.

“Well, shit. Out of ideas then? Who next?”

“Maybe I’ve missed something,” Church muttered. “You sure Kimball wouldn’t be holding on the will? Or Niner? Because if it’s Niner there’s nothing I can do, I’m not stealing from the warden’s office. How the fuck would I even get in there?”

“I don’t know, you’re the break-in guy. I’m amazed you got this, honestly,” Tucker said, as he folded another one of Doc’s notes into the shape of a paper fortune teller.

“No, this was dumb luck. Plus, I was the break-in guy on the outside when I had the option of fucking off if it went wrong.”

“Well, shit, I don’t know. Think on it while you go and pick up the booze from Doc. Hopefully this lot has something good, I’m really itching for a decent buzz.”

Church soon climbed out of the bed, leaving the folder in Tucker’s care, before heading up to Doc’s office to pick up yesterday’s booze. When he knocked on the door and got no answer, he assumed once again that Doc was asleep. He looked behind him to check if Kimball was conveniently there this time, but no-one was present. Church turned back to the door and knocked louder.

“Doc! You can sleep off the job!” he bellowed.

No response.

“Come onn, you can’t be sleeping through this racket! If you’ve got a patient, at least open the door and tell me. I can come back. Doc. Doc!”

There was a long pause. Then faint footsteps. The door cracked open an inch, and Doc stared out. Church opened his mouth to complain, then stopped.

He did not like the chilly look Doc was giving him.

“Yes?”

“You got anyone in there?” Church asked, trying to look past him. Doc turned slightly, looking over his shoulder as his mouth twisted, then looking back.

“No,” Doc said after some hesitation.

“Well, uh… you got my stuff?”

There were another few moments of silence as Doc’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He squinted, staring Church down for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

“No. I don’t.”

Doc went to close the door, but Church’s arm shot out to stop it. Church leaned forward, glaring at Doc.

“What the fuck? You had it yesterday! You better have a fucking good reason for—“

“Church,” Doc interrupted, quietly but firmly. He braced both his hands on the door. “Move your hands before I close the door on them.”

“You got some fucking nerve,” Church growled. "You really want to piss me off?" He wouldn’t dare talk like that to a guard, but this was Doc. Doc was supposed to be easy to push around. But Doc jammed the door an inch further shut, now giving Church the mother of all death glares.

“We’re done. Don’t come back.” With that, Doc shoved the door closed. Church heard the click of the lock afterwards.

...Shit.

Church took a couple of steps back, staring at the door. Doc had to know he’d stolen the files. That explained cutting him off. But why not ask for it back? Why not just say it? And why the disgust directed at him? Stealing some papers was nothing compared to what he’d done in the past. Doc had access to Church’s records. He knew about the murders. It didn’t make sense to act like this now.

Not unless he knew something more than what was on Church’s record.

Church turned away from the door and made his way quickly towards the library. It didn’t take long for him to find Delta rearranging a shelf of history books that had been muddled beyond any comprehend-able timeline.

Delta glanced over at Church, then looked away again. “You should not be--”

“I think Doc knows. I think he has the will and I think he’s read it.” Quickly, Church recapped stealing the files, not finding what he wanted and the unexpected coldness he’d been greeted with.

Delta didn’t say anything as he listened, instead just absently moving a couple of books into different positions. Then, of all things, a small smile crossed his face.

“Interesting,” he said quietly.

“Intere—” Church stopped mid-word, covering his face for a moment while his knuckles needled at his forehead (that migraine, always that fucking migraine) before giving Delta a disbelieving look. “Are you possessed by O’Malley’s ghost? Because he’s the only one who would call this shit ‘interesting.’ Also I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile and it’s freaking me out.”

Delta slid another book back into place, tapping his fingers on the book’s spine for a moment as he thought. “You have the folder of O’Malley’s files?”

“Yeah? Nothing useful in there, though. I checked, it’s just… quizzes and observations and--”

“Destroy it.” Delta fixed his gaze on Church. “Destroy it and I can persuade Doc to be quiet.”

“Why would that matter? It’s just irrelevant bullshit. Doc’s not even good at his job.”

“Church.” Delta lowered his voice, that small smile on his face. “If someone wanted a file and it had vanished without a trace… what conclusion would you draw?”

“That they were hiding it.” It clicked. Church grinned a little. “Huh. Forgot how sneaky you could get. Although I don’t think anyone would buy Doc doing that, but even the fear might be enough.”

“It might. Destroy the file and let me talk to him.” After a moment of consideration Delta added, “Do not write this on your arm.”

“Ugh, fine. But you better remind me, and you better not fuck it up.” Church pointed at Delta and added, “And I’m telling Tucker. Need back-up memories.”

“...If you insist.”

 

* * *

 

Grif didn’t know if it’d been a day, a week or a year. Well, he supposed it couldn’t be a year. He might have gotten out by then. But if time was ever more of an illusion than it was right now, he couldn’t recall it.

He couldn’t remember much in detail. He knew there had been times of sobriety. Where he’d just come to exhausted and grumpy and in the middle of something. Sometimes in the middle of eating. Sometimes in the yard. Usually in his cell. Often Donut was there, looking frustrated.

“Now will you give me the goddamn meth-meth shrooms?” Donut asked irritably one of these times. “Or have you finally run out?”

Grif hadn’t. Although he’d been taking comparatively lighter doses of the stuff, but much more often. He shouldn’t have been. But goddammit, when he wasn’t high he just felt like shit. Sure, he didn’t get what he really wanted, but at least he was too out of it to give a fuck.

He didn’t give Donut the remainder of the shrooms. He was sure Donut had searched his cell, but couldn’t explicitly remember him doing so.

Grif was also having difficulty remembering where he’d hid them right now. Sober Grif knew. High Grif couldn’t recall.

Although, then again, sometimes Grif would suddenly have them. Or maybe he’d bought them on a high. He faintly remembered talking to Birdie at least once.

“Are you high right now? You need to be subtle about it if you’re going to keep at it. I won’t… I won’t say no to the cash, but maybe dial it back a bit? Maybe don’t be an idiot about it?” Birdie had told him.

Grif couldn’t remember what response he’d given. Mostly he remembered how shiny Birdie’s red-tinted sunglasses had looked in the artificial lighting of the cell blocks. He also remembered that Birdie had been hanging with this guy who had the most muscular arms Birdie had ever seen. Maybe he’d been a little distracted by that. Or a lot distracted.

He didn’t like the looks people were giving him lately.

The guards, he could deal with. He’d been asked to turn out his pockets a few times. Gotten lucky that he’d never had the stuff on him at the time, and lucky that Freckles and C.C never seemed to smell the meth-meth shrooms. And the guards were assholes, anyway. He could deal with some disdainful looks from them.

Bitters occasionally shooting him somber looks while Matthews glanced over and quietly steered Bitters a different direction... Church muttering something under his breath about ‘junkie bullshit, go figure’ while wrinkling his nose, or Caboose propping his chin on his hands and staring at him with a puzzled frown… or especially Donut giving him looks of frustrated and mildly disgusted pity while he tried to steer Grif back to bed before a guard noticed he was off. It hurt.

Made him kind of glad that Tucker didn’t have eyes. At least he couldn’t give him any looks. They gave him those looks, but they didn’t give him a better idea for how he was supposed to deal with shit. They didn’t fucking know.

He’d seen things. Most of the hallucinations were distorting what existed. Made the stares worse. But made the shitty food look better (or at least more interesting). Made the sun brighter. Sometimes there was colour where there normally wouldn’t be. Right now, everything had a purple tint to it. Not his favourite colour but it was different.

Sometimes there was shit that wasn’t there at all. Tall, blurry people wading amongst the inmates. Moss and plant life that was weirdly vivid on the cement floor. Once there’d been bats. That had been a bad trip. Regardless, always just a couple of steps out of reality rather than completely divorced from it.

But no Simmons.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” Grif grumbled to thin air. “What do I have to do?” As he muttered this, he absently scratched at his wrists. Little shoots of pain as nails dug at old scabs. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

Was it the cell? Was the cell too dirty? Was it not dirty enough? Grif got to his feet, opened his footlocker and threw all his clothes on the floor. Simmons couldn’t abide a mess. Once he’d thrown the clothes there, kicking them around a bit to make the pile more disheveled, Grif lay down and buried his face in the clothes. They smelt like the softener that Donut used.

“What the fuck do I have to do?” he muttered again. “Why won’t you just--”

_Maybe I don’t want to._

It was Simmonsy, but it didn’t quite feel right. It was distorted, like listening through an old radio with a bad signal. Grif sat up, looking around. He saw nothing. But the back of his neck prickled.

“Simmons?” he asked slowly.

_Why can’t you leave me alone?_

Admittedly not new words from Simmons. Usually yelled at him when Grif burst into the bathroom while Simmons was trying to shower. Always so weird about nudity. But never said with that amount of vitriol.

“Why would I?” Grif retorted. “Come on, asshole, I’m bored.” Please don’t leave.

_I don’t care if you’re bored._

“Well, do you have anything better to do?”

 _I had things that would have been better. Not that I do now. Thanks, asshole._ More distortion. Static. Just a hint of Simmons behind it. His own hallucinations taunting him with how close he was. Grif got to his feet, turning. He had the sense of catching movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Simmons, just… come on, can you stay for a bit? It’s my head, you should be doing what I want.”

_That what you want?_

“No, I want to hang out with Lopez and Locus Pocus. Of course it’s what I want,” Grif grumbled. “Stop being a dick about it.”

_You stop being a dick._

“Wow. What a comeback,” Grif said, grinning. “Come onnn.”

And then suddenly Simmons’ voice was close. So close that Simmons could have had his lips to his ear.

_Then why’d you get me killed?_

Grif took a step forward, turning. Nothing behind him. Just that flicker on the edge of his vision. But he could still… feel Simmons there. Only now there was a sudden sense of dread. Of a chill, and nausea clawing at his stomach.

“I… I, uh...”

 _Why’d you get me killed?_ Louder. More distortion.

“...You’re not even really there,” Grif muttered under his breath. He slowly walked back to the wall, then turned and rested his back against it. Even so, it felt like Simmons was just behind him.

_Why’d you--_

“I didn’t! I...”

_You just had to run after the drug dealer, didn’t you? The cops weren’t good enough. You would have died right there with a knife in your stomach if it wasn’t for me. And how do you repay me? You leave your fucking wallet there. You get us caught._

“You… you never had to...”

_Who was the one always tangling with the guards in here? Making alcohol in the toilet? Mouthing off to whoever crossed your path? Who charged off in the middle of a riot? No weapons?_

Grif was silent.

_Who grabbed the Zealot’s arm halfway through and tried to yank it away?_

Grif remembered that. Remembered an odd sensation most comparable to getting his shirt caught on something and not realising until he felt it tug. He remembered tugging. He remembered liquid gushing, and the smell of blood and waste. It was in his nose now, so fresh that he could have been there.

“...I did that,” he said to the floor.

_You killed me._

“I never… I never meant to, Simmons.” Grif’s voice was quiet and pleading.

He didn’t want to talk to Simmons any more.

But Simmons didn’t go away.

 

* * *

 

Goddamn, did Donut ache. As much as Felix had promised that he’d be gentle, being lightly smacked several dozen times and often ending up lying on the concrete had added up. Still, he tried to pass it off like it was nothing.

“Maybe you’re too old to learn fast,” Felix pondered as they walked back to Donut’s cell. “I’m used to everyone I spar with having learned when they were kids. Kids are dumb but they have more headspace. That’s science.”

“Is that what it is? Headspace?” Donut asked, ducking to the side to avoid the Dakota twins having a mildly heated discussion about something that one of them had done when they were children. North, eyes flickering to Donut as he passed, gave him a slight nod while South either ignored or didn’t notice him. “Kids, huh? You learn in a kid’s class or something?”

“Sure.”

Donut frowned, making small motions with his arms as he tried to remember some of the moves Felix had run him through. “I still don’t understand the throwing.”

“You need to use their own weight against them. Anyone who charges straight is just asking to be tossed. It’s basically a freebie,” Felix said.

“But how do you not just get bulldozed? I just don’t--” Donut stopped upon hearing Grif’s voice floating out of his cell. Immediately he went silent, holding out his hand to stop Felix from walking forward.

“Huh?”

“Stay there, I just...”

Donut sped up, peering through Grif’s bars warily for a moment to check if it was just Grif. When he’d confirmed that he was, he slipped inside.

“Grif?”

Grif didn’t respond. He was staring straight ahead. The tears streaking his face indicated that he’d been crying for a while.

“Shit… Grif, can you hear me?” Donut reached out to gently touch his shoulder, but before he could a hand caught his wrist. Felix had followed, and was now peering at Grif as well.

“What’s he on?”

“Meth-meth shrooms, probably. He’s… he’s been on those a lot lately. But he hasn’t acted like this.”

“Yeahhh, definitely don’t grab him. Once I got my arm broke doing that, and that was just some asshole on shitty basement meth. Tweakers are nuts, so you don’t know what the fuck a Tweaker-Squared would do,” Felix said, trying to pull Donut a couple of steps back.

“Then what do I do? I can’t just leave him there, look at him! Just… look!” Donut flailed his arms at Grif. “Like, you kind of looked like this when you were doped, and that was with the added pressure of Sharkface branding your arm and threatening to dick you.”

“I was definitely not crying,” Felix said dismissively.

Grif mumbled something that was so slurred and incoherent that for all Donut knew it could have been Spanish or Sangheili. He didn’t seem to be blinking, his eyes twitching and moving about but not landing on anything.

Felix turned back, leaning out of the cell and staring down the corridor. After a moment he leaned back. “South’s close.”

“Grif, snap out of it!” Donut snapped his fingers in front of Grif’s face. Grif’s head jerked slightly and he shut his eyes tightly.

“’M’s’rry,” Grif whispered.

“Donut, we don’t want to be here,” Felix said urgently.

“Grif, it’s fine, we’ll talk about it later,” Donut said impatiently. “Get under the sheets and pretend to be asleep, in case--”

Grif shook his head, staring right through Donut. He spoke incoherent words that nonetheless sounded like they had clear, desperate intent behind them. As he did, he heard footsteps and Felix mutter ‘shit’ under his breath as South appeared behind the bars. What was originally meant to be a cursory glance inside turned into a suspicious squint as she first glared at Felix, then turned her attention on Donut. And finally, towards Grif.

“...The fuck’s wrong with him?” she asked. As she did, North appeared behind her and peered inside as well.

Donut’s mind went blank for an excuse. Grif hadn’t paid attention to the guard presence either, and was just staring and muttering. Donut wondered if throwing a sheet over his head would be too obvious or whether it was worth a shot.

“He’s ill,” Felix said, flipping from stressed to casual like a light switch. “We’re about to take him up to see Sheila.”

North nodded at this, seemingly accepting it at face value, but South gave Felix another glare before switching her gaze back to Grif, stepping further into the cell.

“Yeah? What’s he got?” she asked, directing her question towards Donut.

“Syphilis,” Donut blurted out. Behind South, Felix grimaced and covered his face. South raised her eyebrows and looked back at Felix.

“...Syphilis?” she said doubtfully.

“Extreme syphilis,” Felix said through his hands.

Still outside the bars, North covered his mouth and visibly tried not to laugh. South sighed, gesturing for Donut to move.

“He’s high as shit, Donut. Out of the way.” When Donut didn’t immediately move she snapped, “I’ll take him to the infirmary myself either way, just scoot.”

Donut looked down, glanced back at Grif, then moved aside. Not much else he could do. South walked forward, reaching out to grab Grif’s arm.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were--” Felix said, still speaking through his hands.

South ignored him.

 

* * *

 

Something grabbed him. For a moment, there was just nothing except something clawing into his arm. Simmons was quiet for just that moment, still just lingering on the edges of Grif’s peripheral vision.

And then Simmons was everywhere. In front of him. On the sides. Behind. Everywhere. Clawing into his arms, gripping him by the jacket, yanking at him from every which way.

Grif could see him, clear but also jumbled to an impossible degree. The closest he could think to describe it was if someone had layered a million images of Simmons that varied only slightly over each other. Melting into each other to such a degree that limbs seemed to sprout from him and wither from existence, that eyes blinked open and then disappeared. A million expressions shifting over his face.

Something pulled him to his feet, left arm first. Simmons pulling him forward with several overlapping hands swirling over him, like being sucked into some amorphous blob that was just made of Simmons.

There was red soaking Grif’s arms and he wasn’t sure when that had happened.

_you killed me you killed me YOU KILLED ME_

“I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, I’m… Simmons, stop!” Grif pleaded.

He could see intestines leaking out and piling on the floor, spilling from the gap in Simmons where the zealot had dug into him. He could see Simmons staring him down murderously as the hands pulled him forward.

“Stop! Stop it! I don’t want--”

Grif’s feet slid along the floor a little as he tried to pull back without success. Everywhere he looked was just Simmons. He couldn’t see anything else. An entire void of nothing but Simmons, trying to pull him into… into...

Not like this. This wasn’t how Grif wanted to die.

“Simmons, stop!” With that, Grif swung his elbow forward.

From his view, it didn’t seem to have any effect. It just plunged through the air, with Simmons seemingly unaffected. Still glaring him down, still trying to pull him forward. But the physical pressure vanished.

Simmons still gripped his arm, but somehow Grif fell back and hit hard concrete.

 

* * *

 

“Jesus, ow!”

South stumbled back, holding her nose as Grif tumbled backwards, arm still raised from clipping South in the face with his elbow. South only took a step or two back, but blood streamed through her fingers.

“Let me calm him down!” Donut yelled. He tried to move forward, but Felix grabbed him and pulled him back.

“Fuck. Fuck, we need to go,” Felix whispered to Donut.

Now lying on his back, Grif lashed out with his foot this time. He didn’t come into contact with South, however, instead aiming his foot at thin air before scrambling back. Eyes wide and maddened as he shouted at the wall.

“’m not going!” Grif bellowed, kicking the air again.

South lowered her hand, wiping the blood off on her uniform before grasping for her nightstick.

“He’s out of it, he didn’t mean--” Donut started, but that’s as far as he got before he was pushed aside by North. The moment he’d seen the blood, he’d drawn his own nightstick and charged in. Pushing past everyone, South included, to get at Grif.

“I have it handled--” South insisted.

With no hesitation, North swung his foot and kicked Grif square in the stomach. Grif’s eyes widened and he rasped for breath, starting to curl up, but North gave him no time. He knelt, grabbing Grif by the front of his jacket, and smashing the nightstick into the side of his face.

Grif stopped kicking by the third blow. Donut tried to pull forward, but Felix kept a grip on his arm.

“Don’t be stupid,” Felix hissed.

“North, stop! He’s down, stop!” Donut screamed.

North didn’t stop. He just kept hitting whatever bit of Grif he could reach. Cold fury the likes of which Donut had never seen on his face—he couldn’t even recall North looking aggravated before this. Even South looked a little disturbed.

“Uh, North?” she said tentatively. North ignored her.

He wasn’t going to stop.

Donut pulled his arm out of Felix’s grip and ran straight at North. No plan, and certainly not recalling anything that Felix had taught him in the last couple of days. He just ran and leapt onto North’s back, wrapping his arms around North’s neck.

He only lasted a few moments, but it was enough for North to double back. North straightened up, trying to shake Donut off, before turning and slamming his back—Donut included--into the concrete wall.

Donut let go, tumbling to the ground and feeling dizzy, but managed to jump in front of Grif and plant himself between the two. Grif was only stirring slightly, barely on the edge of consciousness. North looked at Donut, looked at Grif, and started to step forward. The nightstick was still in his hand.

South grabbed North’s shoulder, bringing him to a halt.

“They’re subdued, dumbass,” she said shortly.

Behind them, Felix was slowly stepping backwards and edging out of the cell. Donut couldn’t blame him there. North looked at South, then grasped Donut by the arm and pulled him up. He quickly pushed Donut into South’s grip.

“SHU,” he said shortly, before pulling Grif to his feet as well with significantly less gentleness. Grif blinked hazily, eyes glazed even worse. There was a large, bloody mark on his forehead where North had cracked him over the head, and his coughs sounded wet.

“He needs the infirmary,” Donut said quietly. “North--”

“Be quiet.” North’s voice was calm now, but anger was still radiating from it. “SHU.”

“He needs a doctor. He… North!” Donut yelled, trying to pull out of South’s grip. She held on tight, pulling him out of the cell. “North, don’t be fucking stupid!”

North followed, dragging the more compliant and dazed Grif with him. Inmates had clustered a little, hearing the noise, but none of them stepped close as they saw the Dakota twins exit with struggling or bloody inmates.

Over South’s shoulder, Donut spotted Caboose near the end of the corridor. Caboose blinked, staring at Donut with confusion, then started to walk forward quickly with his eyes on the twins. Donut shook his head frantically, mouthing ‘stay back’ at him. Regardless of what happened, he didn’t want Caboose doing what he’d done.

Caboose stopped, watched a little longer with worry twisting his face. His eyes went from Donut to Grif. Back to Donut. Then his mouth set into a line and he nodded. Donut let out a breath and stopped fighting against South’s grip as both he and Grif were hauled down to the shoe. He saw Caboose turn and bolt in the other direction before he was pulled out of sight.

There was no more talk until they were pulled down to SHU. North opened one of the doors and practically flung Grif in there before slamming the door and leaving without a word. South frowned a little as she opened another cell, hesitating for a moment, but then she touched her probably broken nose before pushing Donut lightly in and closing the door behind him.

Donut waited until the footsteps faded, then quickly crouched near his food slot and tried to peer through it at Grif’s cell.

“Grif? Grif, you okay?”

There was a groggy whimper in response.

“Okay. Okay… Grif, stay awake for me? Can you do that?” Donut whispered.

There was another groan. Donut decided that it counted as a yes.

“Okay… you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

Donut looked behind him at the tiny cement room. He knew it was probably his imagination… but he swore he could smell the stink of corpses.

“We’ll be fine,” he repeated, more to himself this time.


End file.
